


This Is For Your Own Good

by CaffeineChic



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: 6000 Years of Slow Burn (Good Omens), 6000 years to figure out what's important, Angst with a Happy Ending, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale and his relationship to Heaven, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), M/M, POV Aziraphale (Good Omens), body control, body image control, don't ask him about it either, families are hard, families of origins do not need to be families of destination, just don't ask him about it directly, ymmv on the angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 03:06:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 20,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26069932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaffeineChic/pseuds/CaffeineChic
Summary: Aziraphale reached the free seat and sat. The chair wheel squeaked awkwardly, disturbing the soundless air of the room. A misshapen laugh broke out of him, fell in his lap as he fidgeted.It was joined by no one else's. He felt his face redden.(This wasn't the first time.How many times had it been that he had tried to join in a joke, to find joy with the other angels only to find himself stared at in discomforting quiet, told to take things more seriously.They were right.He should.He should take things more seriously.He wasn't funny anyway. They never laughed.)
Relationships: Aziraphale & Angels (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 390
Kudos: 290





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> An enourmous thanks to [Princip1914](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Princip1914) for their amazing patience and guidance on this story. It has been and continues to be greatly appreciated. They are an excellent person and I highly recommend you check out their writing.
> 
> And thanks to the best beans who have cheerleaded me every time I have started to stress over this.
> 
> This is the first multichapter fic that I have written in nearly 20 years, but the story is very important to me and I am excited / nervous as hell to share it. 
> 
> I am aiming to update every two weeks.

####  **The Squeaky Wheel**

The first staff meeting that Aziraphale attended was due to start at a time that didn't technically exist, seeing as time itself didn't exist quite yet.. There was no real shape to it - it just was and you just knew and then you were where you were expected to be. It made it all the more strange, really, that he was somehow late. 

The room was filled with angels of every level - they all turned to look at him simultaneously, rounding en masse to appraise him. He was filled with the intense desire to stare at the floor, avoid the scrutiny. He fought it, smiled, waved at a fellow principality. They didn't wave back. 

He lowered his hand, slowly. His smile faltered. 

"Aziraphale. We've already started." Gabriel's voice caught him, refocused him to the front of the room beyond the angelic crowd. 

"Yes. So sorry. I must have gotten the time wrong?" A mistake. His. 

"We kept a seat free for you." 

Aziraphale scanned the room and saw the seat in question - to Gabriel's left. Up front, the head of the table. Oh, how lovely! Gabriel must be pleased with him to have kept him such a prominent position. Maybe this wouldn't be a disaster after all. 

He made his way to the front of the room, aware suddenly, that the others were no longer making eye contact with him. It was fine, surely. Nothing. Imagined. He was prone to worrying unnecessarily, for overthinking things. It had come up repeatedly in his performance reviews. 

The silence in the room began to feel oppressive. What was everyone waiting for? 

Aziraphale reached the free seat and sat. The chair wheel squeaked awkwardly, disturbing the soundless air of the room. A misshapen laugh broke out of him, fell in his lap as he fidgeted. 

It was joined by no one else's. He felt his face redden. 

(This wasn't the first time. 

How many times had it been that he had tried to join in a joke, to find joy with the other angels only to find himself stared at in discomforting quiet, told to take things more seriously. 

They were right. 

He should. 

He should take things more seriously. 

He wasn't funny anyway. They never laughed.) 

"To recap for late comers - " 

A snicker behind him, he dared not turn around to find the source. He worried a knuckle between fingers and thumb. He worried. 

" - to follow up on last week's memo - " Aziraphale relaxed slightly, more comfortable ground. Eden. He had read the memo. He read all the memos. " - The Almighty is ready to start The Garden Project and it requires an Angel on the ground. Someone to watch over the humans, manage the gate etcetera etcetera. Aziraphale." 

"Yes?" 

"Great! We're agreed then, you'll ready yourself today, head on down." 

"I don't - but what - I have things - " 

"Pack them, Aziraphale." 

It wasn't what he'd meant. There was nothing to pack. He had - he had friends here? Responsibilities. A purpose. 

A purpose. 

(Nothing that he could hold in his hands. He made a fist. Held it tight against his thigh.) 

He glanced around the room, at all the eyes that wouldn't meet his. 

Oh. 

This was why. No one else wanted the job. 

What would he do, anyway? Argue with an Archangel? Argue with anyone? The thought alone made him run cold, a deep twisting happening within his true self. His eyes stung. He fisted his hand tighter. 

Alright. They had decided. And...and he trusted them. If they thought this was the right choice, then it must be. God, who did not appear to be present, would intervene if there was an issue. This was her pet project. Humans. 

Watching over them was no punishment. 

He would do as he was asked. 

####  **In Which Walls Fall But We Remaining Standing**

Eden was quiet. Open and warm, an explosion of colour. 

Aziraphale drank it in. 

Day after day after day. He'd lost count. Should he have been counting? Was time to be measured and enumerated now? The instructions hadn't been clear. Very little had been clear. 

But there was no one to question, and no one to question him. No memos. No staff meetings. No happening upon a flock of cherubs who stopped talking when he approached. 

He had never been alone before. There had always been another angel. 

And the silence. 

(The empty space where his attempts at companionable words had been met with stilted, stalling replies. 

Laughter and chatter that echoed from the walls that ricochet around, never quite striking him. 

He didn't miss Heaven. The guilt of it sat heavy on his newly minted sternum. He worried there'd be questions about the bowing of the bones. He tried so hard to relax. 

He tried so hard.) 

He walked among the flowers and he was happy. 

It worried him greatly. 

####  **You Deserve To Be Punished**

When the snake approached him on the wall, transformed into a human-shaped being, he perhaps should have moved away, sounded an alarm? Something other than stand companionably with him. 

But. 

"Well, that went down like a lead balloon." 

Oh. 

When was the last time someone had started a conversation with him. He was the only one there, though, and Crawly was a demon. 

He wasn't much of a choice. 

But. 

When he said he had given the sword away, there was no mockery, no derision. 

"I don't think you _can_ do the wrong thing." 

(a flash of lightning out in the distance, a matching one shot down his spine. 

his nerve endings lit up. 

he raised his wing.) 

The note appeared in his hand. 

"What's that?" 

"Gabriel wants to see me." 

"Gabriel. Oh. Yeah - remember him." Crawly's mouth twisted in a displeased fashion, nodded towards the note. "That can't be good then. Well, it _can_ , I guess." 

"I'm sure it's nothing - just, just a check in - given..." He looked out over the expanse of desert, the sword a beacon in the worsening storm. 

"You'll be alright. You did the Right Thing." 

"I should go." He pulled at the note, fraying the edges, tearing the corners. 

Crawly reached out and plucked it from his fidgeting hands. He couldn't place the look on the demon's face, he should stop him. 

He should. 

The note burst into flames, ashes on the lifting wind. Some tension drifted out of his chest. 

"I'm going to have a wander, seeing as the place is empty now. See you around, angel." 

Aziraphale watched him leave. The flash of red and black amongst the green, the ease of movement in serpentine joints. 

_Graceful. He’s so graceful._

(the thought assaulted him, nerves firing again. 

an unnamed shame pulled on him. 

he lowered his wing. 

and returned to Heaven.) 

####  **The Dropping of a Heart**

The Archangels surrounded him, four points on a compass. He felt utterly lost. 

He faced Gabriel, tried to ignore Sandalphon at his back. His skin itched. 

"Aziraphale. We hadn't expected to have you back so soon." 

"Well, yes. Things took an - unexpected turn. I was quite ah, surprised, with the severity of Her reaction?" His voice shot upwards as inwardly he twisted in embarrassment. Why was he always so awkward with them? 

Uriel's voice caught him in the side, sharp and pointed. "She was quite clear with the rules, Aziraphale. It wouldn't become us to question the rigour of Her edicts, now would it? She sets the rules. We follow the rules. Her love remains endless. It's very simple." 

Follow the rules. Her love remains endless. "Simple. Yes. Very - simple." 

"You were tasked with Eden as we assumed it would be within your capabilities. You volunteered for this." It wasn't quite how Aziraphale remembered it, he didn't think Sandalphon would appreciate the correction though. "We didn't expect to see you back here for quite some time." 

_we didn't expect to..._

_...we had hoped not to_

\- all the things they didn't say. He wasn't deaf to them. He felt like his entire existence had been spent picking out unsaid words. 

(there was a place inside of him where he kept them all. a pocket beneath the false ribs of his left side, below his newly physical heart. 

in private, in self-reproach, he pulled them out to look over them, turn them over and over and over to examine them from every angle. 

all the things they didn't say. all the things they did. 

it hurt every time. 

he couldn't stop himself. 

what was wrong with him.) 

He pulled heavenly air in through his nose, inflated his lungs. His chest felt tight. He couldn't quite expand properly, couldn't fill up the space. He was probably taking up too much as it was. 

He would keep trying. The rest of them made it look so easy - being, existing, connecting. Getting it right. 

(He tried and he tried and he tried and still. He failed. 

She didn't make mistakes. 

But. 

What if he was defective?) 

Gabriel cast a narrowing eye over him - "Didn't you have a sword?" 

"Oh. Yes. Already spoken to The Almighty about it." It wasn't a lie. He had spoken to Her about it. Gabriel had never been one to ask him follow up questions. 

"Great! Now - let's talk about what's next for Aziraphale. We think you could do more." 

"More?"

"Yes back down on Earth."

"But The Garden is empty of - of humans." 

(he thought of Crawly wandering barefoot in the grass, all reddened curls and curious looks. 

they didn't need to know about that. 

he didn't understand why. but he knew. they wouldn't understand - an unsmited demon in the Garden of Eden. 

a demon that had offered him comforting words when he needed them most. 

Crawly would surely be gone by now anyway. 

it didn't matter.) 

Michael and Uriel appeared at his shoulders, the compass collapsing in a switchblade movement. They were inside a boundary that Aziraphale wasn't typically at ease with. Too close. Uninvited. It wasn't welcome. He wanted to step back. He forced himself to hold still. 

(defective. he must be defective. who doesn't welcome their brothers and sisters. who doesn't welcome an angel.) 

"Aziraphale," Michael was honey toned and irrefutable "The decision has been made. You will return to Earth. You will see that The Garden is secured against further intrusion. You will follow - " She gestured tightly, her expression inscrutable save for a minuscule curl of her lip that Aziraphale recognized too well. " - the humans out into the world." 

She stepped in front of him, straightened his robes. (would he ever be right.) "Besides, they'll expire soon. By all accounts, she didn't make them like us. They're not like us, Aziraphale." 

(he thought of Eve, so full of joy, Adam at her heels, besotted. 

how easily she had reached for knowledge, how readily he had followed. 

they'd left the garden together. 

no.

they weren't like angels at all.)

"They're expecting." 

"Expecting what?" Gabriel had clearly not read the memos. He should have felt more surprised. 

"Another one of them, they've created another human. Together." 

Michael scoffed. "That is..." She didn't say disgusting, she didn't have to. She plucked out a perfect thread. "The plan remains the plan. You’ll thank us for this, Aziraphale.” 

For being sent away? For being unwanted? For not meeting a standard he couldn’t quite understand? 

The silence pressed in on him. The moment replayed. 

You’ll thank us for this. 

Ah. He bothered the ground beneath his feet, tried to look Michael in the eye. 

He pushed the words out - “Yes. Thank you. For this.” 

Maybe they’d let him leave now. He wanted to leave. Now. 

"Do not interfere, Aziraphale. Stay out of trouble. Be as She intended." 

"Yes. Yes, of course." 

He balled his hand into a fist, tried to hold on to everything he knew was true, everything they'd told him. He could do this. He was just worrying. It would pass. They loved him. 

He'd try harder. 

Follow the rules. Her love remains endless. It would be fine. 

"Oh, drop down to Corporations before you go. They need to review how this one is working out, bit of concern about some tension in the bones. You're not tense, are you Aziraphale? Of course not. What would you have to be tense about." 

Gabriel clapped him on the back. He felt ill. 

Was that normal? Maybe he should mention it. 

(a copper ringlet danced across his vision. 

something else stirred within him. 

he mentioned nothing.) 

####  **An Opportunity for Good**

The silence of Eden wrapped around him once again, and his lungs filled and filled and filled. Aziraphale rolled his neck, stretched out his wings and let the sun settle on the breadth of him. 

"Well - how did it go?" 

He startled, flustered, pulled in his wings a fraction as Crawly slithered down a tree branch, shifted into upright form. 

"I didn't think you'd still be here. I, I mean - you're not supposed to be here." 

"Obvioussssly." Crawly settled in against the tree trunk, looked him over. "That bad?" 

"Gabriel thinks I should stay down here. A Good opportunity." 

"What did She say?" 

"Nothing. She wasn't at the meeting." 

"Sounds about right. What do you think? Good opportunity?" 

(did it matter what he thought? Michael had seemed disinclined to think so.) 

"You ask a lot of questions, Crawly." 

"Heard that once or twice. Well. Once. From a rapidly increasing distance - can stop if you like?" 

"Oh, no. I just may not have all your answers." 

A smile, crooked and honest on a serpent's mouth. 

"What?" 

"You're not like the other angels." 

His wings flexed and flashed in indignation."I most certainly am! I'm. I'm good. I'm here to do Good." 

"Yeah. I think you might be." 

(later, when he pulled Crawly's words out to look them over, he couldn't remember why he had felt indignant about them at all. 

they didn't hurt when he put them back.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a huge and giant thank you, as always to [alias424](http://alias424.tumblr.com) who has listened to me wax on about writing this. 
> 
> we just had our second baby (5 days ago!) so that could impact posting schedule!
> 
> i am [here](http://caffeinechic.tumblr.com) on tumblr, feel free to come say hi!!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Aziraphale! Thanks for stopping by." 
> 
> Summoned. He'd been summoned. He was reasonably sure of that. The white expanse of Heaven spilled out before him, a stream of unblemished pale. 
> 
> "So, quick update. The Almighty will be wiping out most of the human race. Starting over with a select few." 
> 
> It took a moment for the words to filter through, by which point Gabriel was already walking away from him, like he hadn't just dropped a bombshell at his feet. Aziraphale stutter started to jog after him, trying to keep up, trying to avoid the explosion. "I'm sorry?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Endless thanks to [Princip1914](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Princip1914%22) for continuing to help me wrangle this into readable shape
> 
> Minor CW warning for body / body image control. Very small section.

####  **Not His to Reason Why**

"Aziraphale! Thanks for stopping by." 

Summoned. He'd been summoned. He was reasonably sure of that. The white expanse of Heaven spilled out before him, a stream of unblemished pale. 

"So, quick update. The Almighty will be wiping out most of the human race. Starting over with a select few." 

It took a moment for the words to filter through, by which point Gabriel was already walking away from him, like he hadn't just dropped a bombshell at his feet. Aziraphale stutter started to jog after him, trying to keep up, trying to avoid the explosion. "I'm sorry?"

"Yeah, not a big deal." Gabriel reached into the ether and pulled something into being. "- here's the list, make sure Noah and his family build the whatever this thing is, get on board before the flood sets in, two of every animal." Gabriel cast a perfunctory eye over the page before tossing it back at him. "Why two? Whatever. Shouldn't be too hard for you." 

Aziraphale hit a dead stop, his feet refused to move forward. "Why - why would She do this?" 

"Part of the Great Plan, Aziraphale. It's not ours to question. You're not questioning it, are you?" Gabriel was suddenly a foot in front of him. Pinning him in place with a plastered on smile and overly calm demeanour. 

"No. I - of course not." 

"Good!" And Gabriel was gone, away at a clip. 

Aziraphale crumpled the list in his hand, walked himself out. 

(an hour passed with it crushed in his palm. 

tighter and tighter and tighter. 

the rules were simple. 

simple. simple. simple. 

simple rules. 

he spent half a day smoothing out the page.) 

####  **Breathing Underwater**

"You think this is ok? The Right thing?" Crawly shouted over the raging winds, the driving rain. Aziraphale didn't remember agreeing to him coming aboard with Noah and the others. He didn't remember agreeing to the presence of the seven families that were currently huddled in the lower decks. 

(when asked, if asked, he could say they had slipped by in the rush of boarding. 

he hadn't helped them. he'd been told not to. 

he'd been told not to interfere.

so.

Crawly had been unimpeded.) 

"I - ." 

"No don't answer that. I won't like it if you say it is, and you won't like it if you say it’s not. Not a lot of Good coming out of this conversation." 

"That's - " 

(he wanted to say kind, he wanted to say it was the first time anyone had ever considered his feelings. 

his balled fist hit against his thigh. 

he was being uncharitable. the others loved him. it was ungracious of him to think otherwise. 

how could he think these things.) 

"Don't." Crawly's voice was softer than it should have been, it stopped his spiraling thoughts. Happenstance. Surely. 

They stood on the rain thrashed bow, robes sopping and leaden with water. Aziraphale didn't raise a wing this time. What comfort could he bring? He turned his face into the downpour and let it wash away his burgeoning concerns. 

####  **###**

The humans multiplied again, came back from what should have been a disaster, a culling. He loved them. They always survived. 

Persevered. Invented. Continued. 

These bonds they formed, and sometimes destroyed. The choices. 

Aziraphale settled among them and breathed. 

####  **You're not right**

Gabriel wanted to deliver the message - Her son to be born of a human woman. Gabriel was going to tell her. 

Aziraphale tried not to bristle at the thought. 

"It's not that you can't do it, obviously - you're an Archangel, and and _more than_ capable. I just thought that perhaps, given my _experience_ with the humans - " 

"You don't exude confidence, Aziraphale. And - you're not exactly the face of her greatest works. This assignment just isn't for you." 

(the words shoved in between his ribs. a slight. a dig. a purposeful stab. 

he hadn't chosen this corporation. but it was his, and he loved it. liked it, at least. 

Gabriel knew best, he supposed. 

But. 

But.) 

"Perhaps, if I could offer some advice?" 

Gabriel's sigh was clearly exasperated but he shrugged his shoulders and allowed Aziraphale to continue. "Gentleness - a level of, a level of _care._ They respond well to _care_." 

The Archangel stood to his fullest height, chest broad and puffed. "Thanks. I think I can handle it. This Mary human will enjoy the show! Leave it to me, Aziraphale. You're not right for this." 

( _you're_ not right) 

Gabriel walked off, leaving him once again in an empty space, alone - the echo of a booming "Be Not Afraid" rattling through the air. 

####  **Adversarial Choices**

"I am not consulted on policy decisions, Crawly." Despite asking. Again. He had sent a note asking for more details, carefully worded to request clarity on the specifics of what he was being tasked to do, and not do. 

No one had replied. 

"I've changed it." 

"Changed what?" 

"My name. Crawly just wasn't doing it for me." 

"Well, you _were_ a snake." He heard himself say, he heard Crawly, now Crowley remake himself beside him. A new moniker decided, chosen for himself. 

He looked at him out of the corner of his eye - newly renamed and in women's garb. All the choices he had made for himself. 

Was that allowed? 

"What was it he said that got everyone so upset again?" 

"Be kind to each other." 

(He rather thought that wouldn't go over any better upstairs) 

"Yeah, that'll do it." Crawly...Crowley understood. 

"Are you staying?" He tried not to sound hopeful. 

"Yeah, should see it through to the end. Bear witness and all that." 

"Doesn't seem very demonic of you." 

"Don't let that get about." 

His stomach flipped. He was still getting used to it. 

####  **Performance Review**

"Aziraphale, we need to talk." 

"Yes, yes we do." He had much to report. He'd compiled it all very carefully, rehearsed it three times. Only stumbled on it twice. 

"What have you done to your corporation?" 

Aziraphale smiled with delight that it had been noticed. "Oh! I lengthened my hair! I thought I would make a change, it’s not unusual for the humans." 

Gabriel's was not smiling. "You're not human, Aziraphale." 

"I know that." His face burned, fire flooding his cheeks. The heat of _wrongness_ thrumming through his veins. 

"This is not what we gave you. You'll change it back. No pointless miracles. No unapproved modifications." 

"No, no of course not. I didn't see the harm in it. I'm sorry." He'd forgotten - all the things that weren't his. How foolish, how stupid. 

His fingers shook as he pulled the miracle down, put himself to rights. 

"You can go, now." 

He inhaled, deep, held his breath to protect his chest. 

Gabriel didn't ask for his report. 

####  **###**

Aziraphale couldn't face them again after that, not by choice. Not unless summoned. 

(invited. they would call it an invite. 

he knew better.) 

He sent his next reports via memo. 

He didn't receive a reply. 

He moved forward, started to live. 

He tried to keep hold of what they'd told him - how to be, how to act. He held it firmly in his hand, a reminder pressed into this palm. It tore against the skin. They wouldn't be happy. 

(three years passed before he finally relaxed, exhaled - 

\- loosened his grip, slightly. 

He tried not to think about it.) 

####  **The Unmarred Terrain**

Oyster shells and mugs of house brown lay scattered on the table between them. A respectable amount. Mostly. Aziraphale wasn't seeing double, it was fine. He'd just said made some passing remark about one of the patrons sitting at a table opposite. It had been quite catty in retrospect. He probably shouldn't have said it. 

Crowley grinned at him, wide and easy. 

(it was very pleasing to look at. 

he tried to look away. 

he failed.) 

Aziraphale stared and stared and stared until a corner of the demon's mouth dipped a fraction, let loose a - "You're staring." 

"You're smiling." 

"Well - you're fun, angel." 

Oh. Oh that couldn't be right. Or Good. Proper. He wasn't fun. He knew that. He was...tolerable. He wasn't - his company wasn't enjoyable. He wasn't sure why Crowley had even agreed to join him. 

But. 

He reached out slowly with his power, and found nothing but Truth. He retracted immediately, stung by it. Confused. 

His eyes burned. Water pricking at all their edges. 

He stood up suddenly, banged a knee, jostled the table. 

"I should be getting on, blessings and and whatnot, you know how it is. I mean, no, you don't - not blessings - temptations. You should be getting on with those. If you like." 

_if you like._

_...me?_

(words piled up and up and up in his mouth and trampled each other to get past his teeth. what on earth was he saying. what twist of consonants and vowels were escaping him. 

he needed to go. find familiar, safer ground. 

Crowley had laughed. 

at his joke. 

and not _at him._

the unmarred terrain of his face cracked and ruptured, two valleys deepened in his cheeks. 

he smiled, and it was real. 

the newness of it hurt.) 

####  **The Singular Direction of Acoustic Waves**

They had pulled him up unceremoniously. No notice. No warning. He hadn't warranted one, apparently. The shock of the relocation rattled his bones, he tried to settled them. They kept sending him notes about attending to his corporation. One minute he had been walking the castle grounds, the next he was facing Gabriel and defending the humans to them, _again_. 

"She made them - She - _we're_ supposed to watch over them, guide them.” 

"Aziraphale, buddy, they're humans. They're really not worth that much effort. Just keep an eye on them, see they don't do anything too extreme. Some of them will end up downstairs. The ones that make it up here, _those_ we'll look after. There is no point wasting too much time on them before that." 

"But - but isn't the point to see that more of them end up here?" 

"Well sure, don't want the other side to win." 

(is that all it was? beating the opposition? Crowley never seemed too concerned about numbers. or about anything other than giving them choices, letting them make their own messes. shouldn't he be doing the same?) 

Ridiculous. This was ridiculous. 

He swallowed, tamped down the feeling hard - hard hard hard. Gabriel couldn't know, none of them could. 

"I am working in King Arthur's court as - as _you_ instructed. Counterbalancing demonic wiles as _you_ reque - " 

"Sandalphon has the details of your next assignment and he'll be your direct contact for a while! Thought we'd mix it up. All good? Great!" 

It wasn't the fact that Gabriel had interrupted him that troubled him - it was that he spoke as though he had been unaware at all that Aziraphale had been speaking. He hadn't been cut across - he had been wholly disregarded. 

It didn't matter what he had to say. They were never listening. 

He looked around Heaven's gleaming brightness, its sterile walls - Gabriel's words washing over him. 

He stopped listening. It didn't matter. 

(one two three times, a fist against his thigh. he focused on the feeling.) 

He wasn't really being spoken to. 

He didn't matter to them. 

They weren’t paying attention. 

####  **The Dampness of Unshed Tears**

"How would it work?" Aziraphale pushed open the tent flap and stepped inside. Irritated. He felt irritated and riled up. He probably shouldn't make decisions like this. 

"How would - ." 

"This arrangement of yours. Ours. The arrangement." He removed his visor, took off his gloves. 

Crowley's eyes widened, the yellow of them glowing in the lamplight. "Figured we could work that out as we go?" 

"No no this is your plan, your suggestion, you need to have details. I can't agree to something without the details, I need to know what's expected." 

(rules. 

just simple rules to follow.) 

"Oh right, well - we trade off orders. You do some of mine, I do some of yours. Two birds, one stone and all that." 

"I won't - I'm not _hurting_ anyone." 

"Hurting anyone! What sort of a demon do you take me for, angel. Just good old fashioned inconvenience, bit of temptation...don't look so scandalized, nothing salacious. Just, y'know, bit of theft, push a person or two to kiss a person or three." 

(some wild twisting part of him latched on to _Crowley_ and _kissing_ and held the idea tight. 

buried it deep, hid it away. 

they couldn't find it. it was his. this had to be his.) 

He shook his head, tried to refocus. "And you'd do blessings? _Can_ you do blessings?" 

"Course I can. S'just a miracle, just changing how I use it." 

"Alright then." Decision made. 

"Alight then." Crowley looked vaguely stunned, like he hadn't really considered agreement. But then his face sharpened with curiosity."Aziraphale - what changed your mind?" 

Crowley's stare was unrelenting, he couldn't look directly at it. "Always with your questions, Crowley." 

"I like your answers. Nevermind, tell me when you're ready. Or don't. Up to you. Haven't figured out how we'll convince the higher ups and lower downs though. Lying's not an issue for me but..." 

An idea formulated, hardened. And Aziraphale knew. "We could...we could just send them a memo - a report. Instead of going in person." 

Crowley sat back, mulled it over. "A report." 

"Yes. In my experience, the higher ups enjoy the idea of a report without actually verifying the content. Or reading it at all." 

"My, my, angel." Crowley's grin was all teeth and delight. 

"Oh, shut up. Gabriel doesn't - he doesn't listen, so I started writing everything down. I don't think it’s my fault that he never reads them." 

(there are a lot of things that could be classified as his fault, if he asked the right person. 

but perhaps not this.) 

"Now, have you anything warming to drink? It _is_ quite damp here." 

####  **The Performative Nature of Survival**

Aziraphale had slept on and off through the years. He quite enjoyed it - that moment when his corporation loosened and unwound so thoroughly that the tension that pressed so persistently into his bones leaked out and left him, however temporarily, at ease. 

He didn't do it nightly, only when the weight became too much. 

It was nice. 

He liked it. 

He had drifted off in his rented rooms, pillows propped behind him. Dreams tempted him into deeper sleep. 

The crash threw him out of sleep abruptly - the water jug shattered on the floor. Sandalphon and Uriel stood beside the shards. 

Aziraphale threw himself from the bed, pulled down a miracle to dress himself. His hands flustered at his front. 

"Oh - Uriel, Sandalphon - I wasn't expecting you." 

Sandalphon's sneer was ugly and wretched. "Clearly." 

"I was sleeping. It's a way of recharging the body. Easing the mind." 

"Seems a waste." Uriel's tone was falsely light, the true weight of it hitting him square in the chest. 

A small part of him was impressed that she had managed to keep the disdain from her voice. 

(he didn't understand the contempt, the source of it. what thing he was doing that was so antagonizing. 

defective. something wrong in his nature. 

he'd try harder. 

no.

he’d hide it better.) 

"I, um, wasn't aware we were meeting today? Did you send a note?" 

Sandalphon bared his teeth - the gold glinting in the fading light. "Why would we do that?" 

"Right. Yes. Of course. No - no need. You're always welcome." 

Uriel narrowed her eyes, started to walk the room, inspecting it. "You have been granted a great deal, Aziraphale. You should show the proper respect. It's for your own good, we know you struggle." 

"You do?" 

She turned towards him, slow, definite - arms held wide. "Of course! We see you, Aziraphale." 

A relief washed through him. They saw him. 

"We've heard your complaints about the humans, how much help you need. You're overwhelmed. We understand. It's still not a reason to switch your corporation off - to not being doing your duty." 

Complaints? He hadn't complained had he? The relief turned to dread. Is that what they saw? A complainer, an angel so overwhelmed that they couldn't stay conscious? Is that who he was? Who would know him better than them? 

(the words behind his ribs crept up and up and pushed against his heart. 

it was going to perforate. 

but then. 

_"I don't think you_ can _do the wrong thing."_

a padding. a protection. 

he could do the next thing.) 

"Thank you, Uriel. Sandalphon. For your consideration." 

They left in a blink, the jug still cracked across the floor. 

Aziraphale picked the pieces up by hand, dried the water with a towel. 

When he was done he sat at the foot of the bed, and waited for the sunrise. 

They would be no rest for him, no peace. They could come back at any time. His nails worried the tendon in his palm, played them like scales. 

It was never enough. He was never enough. 

The sun dripped into the room. He rose, steadied himself. 

He had a clan leader to tempt. 

(the tension set in deep.) 

####  **Rectitudinous Requests**

"I know you cheated the coin toss." 

"I would never!" Crowley held a hand against his chest, feigned insult painted on his face. "Yeah, alright. Really didn't want to be on a horse, angel." 

The sharp edges of angelic words, manipulating edicts pierced his insides, poked out from under his ribs. He looked at Crowley's almost guilty face, and knew no harm had been meant, it didn't stop the sting. But it made him brave. "I don't like being lied to. Or...or tricked." 

Crowley stilled, dropped his hand and met his gaze. "No. You don't. You do the toss from now on, yeah?" 

(things inside him shifted and moved, made room for something else. 

he couldn't place the shape of it.) 

"That would be - that would be fine. Yes. Thank you." 

"Oh definitely don't thank me I'll come out in a rash - would you have said yes if I'd just asked?" 

"Absolutely not." 

"Bastard. Let's get a drink." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my hope of updating every two weeks is likely to be blown out of the water given the presence of the new small human in my house. more is written!!
> 
> i'm [here](caffeinechic.tumblr.com) on tumblr, come say hi!
> 
> Thanks for reading, kudos, comments, messages always welcome


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An anger he hadn't known he was capable of bubbled inside him, threatened to overspill. It caught him unaware, laced up through his veins.
> 
> Aziraphale reached into the ether with indignant fingers, wrapped his power around a miracle large enough to impact all of northern France. He held it steady and let the energy creep over the back of his hand, into his palm, let it crawl along all their expectations and rules and rules and rules…and stopped.
> 
> He let it go. Dropped it back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so much thanks to [Princip1914](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Princip1914) who is beta'ing the literal heaven and hell out of this.

####  **the impractical nature of loving**

Aziraphale admired the shoes in the shop mirror. They were very pretty, and he thought they flattered him. It would be an indulgence of a sort. Over the years, he had found it useful to convert his celestial wages to human currency. It wasn't much now that the bookshop plans were coming to fruition but he had enough to allow himself a purchase or two of a more extravagant nature.

They were _very_ pretty.

The note appeared in his hand, a freshly twisted miracle still trimming its edges.

Aziraphale unfolded it, his eyes drawn immediately to Gabriel's sprawlingly illegible signature at the bottom. He tutted at it - all style, no substa - he caught the end of thought before it finished, before he could allow himself an idea he would later regret.

(he regretted it, regardless. contrition seeping in between fragmented thoughts. 

Gabriel, his brother, his superior. His _Superior_.

to think so dourly of him. it wouldn't do.

they'd know.

wouldn't they?)

He read through the note, top to bottom, read it again as his stomach churned and clenched.

Frivolous.

He was being reprimanded for being frivolous with his miracles. A written warning.

Gabriel hadn't seen fit to speak to him in person. He wasn't even worth that. A chance to discuss, to explain.

Frivolous.

He had, given the current lack of resources for most of the population, recently started to miracle small amounts of human money into pockets, an extra loaf of bread, or some sugar as needed. He couldn't fix all of their needs but he could ease some of their hardship. Small pulls of power to lighten a worry, make a day less distressing.

A reason for them to find hope, to look up and give thanks. To make it to tomorrow.

It wasn't guaranteed. But it was worth it, that they might make it another step forward.

Frivolous.

 _They_ were not frivolous. Safeguarding them was not frivolous.

An anger he hadn't known he was capable of bubbled inside him, threatened to overspill. It caught him unaware, laced up through his veins.

Aziraphale reached into the ether with indignant fingers, wrapped his power around a miracle large enough to impact all of northern France. He held it steady and let the energy creep over the back of his hand, into his palm, let it crawl along all their expectations and rules and rules and rules…and stopped.

He let it go. Dropped it back.

He couldn't. He wanted to, so desperately, so much.

He couldn't.

He caught his reflection in the mirror, again. Defeat permeated his features. 

The sun caught off the buckle of the shoe, still pretty, still expensive.

He snapped the money for them from the ether.

Frivolous.

He left the shop wearing the shoes, he left the anger behind as best he could.

####  **An Anchoring Truth**

The crepes were delicious. The company equally so.

Aziraphale allowed himself the freedom to think it. Subdued irritation still thrummed inside him.

"Come on, tell me - why didn't you miracle yourself free?"

"I _did_ tell you - no more frivolous magic."

"You were about to have your head lobbed off. _How_ is that frivolous? I know your lot like paperwork but come on, angel, we both know getting a new corporation is tedious even for the prats upstairs."

"Being _here_ is frivolous. _I_ am frivolous. What I _do_ is frivolous. And don't call them prats, it’s rude."

"Aziraphale - did Gabriel even write the note?"

"What?"

"Gabriel. Did he write it?"

"It had his name on it."

"Angel." Crowley sighed his name in a way that made his heart beat loud in his ears, he struggled to hear the rest of the demon's soft spoken utterance. "I sign my name to reports _you_ write for me all the time. I don't _read_ them."

"You don't read them?"

"Course not. I trust you."

(trust. without question.

it jarred his fingers, shook the fine bones.

he put down his fork, gathered himself back up.)

"I fail to see what that has to do with, Gabriel?" He hoped he sounded natural, like he wasn't _concentrating_ on sounding natural.

Crowley seemed unperturbed. Or was perhaps doing him a kindness by ignoring it. Best not to mention it. "If you're so frivolous he'd have had you up to prostrate yourself, he loves you grovelling."

"Now, Crowley, that's not fair!"

"'xactly my point, angel - he's not reading your reports, he's not checking up on miracles. This reeks of Michael. And Michael's a wanker. We can deal with a wanker."

(we. _we_. 

the nerves of his spine sparked and lit, flamed for a half a second. he twisted in his seat, lay down his knife.

they couldn’t _be_ a we.

but.

an angel hadn’t rescued him, hadn’t known to come. 

or had known.

and ignored it. 

he was never sure what they knew, what they were blind to.)

 _"We_ aren't going to deal with anything. Let's just…let it lie. I don't want to attract attention." 

(what if they started looking?

what would they see?)

####  **You Will Like This**

Aziraphale breathed with as much contentment as he had been able to gather in quite some time. There was still so much work to do but the idea of it thrilled him, finding the exact place for every manuscript, every tome. Devising a system that would, if not thoroughly impede, at least slow down sales. He supposed that was a bit self-centered of him, rapacious - to want to display but not to part with.

His breath caught as the prickle of ethereal magic crept in - Gabriel and Sandalphon. Unannounced. He had given up counting the times they had rent open his life without warning, he had given up hinting at them to ask.

"We are here with good news!" Gabriel's arms and smile were wide and open and like the bared maw of something to be avoided.

Why was he always so apprehensive of them? (the niggling thought, _he knew why,_ trickled down his neck, flowed over his vertebrae.)

"Oh! How lovely." It didn't feel lovely, it felt like dread. He held himself tight to prepare for the blow, sagged immediately in repentance for even thinking such a thing. He shouldn’t be afraid. 

"We're bringing you home."

It wasn't even a question. The presumption of it, that this was what he would want. It struck him directly. The _home_ pierced and tore and dug under his skin, pushed inside to score his ribs.

"I'm opening this bookshop on Friday." He couldn't leave. They couldn't make him.

He sagged further. They could.

Gabriel shrugged and waved offhandedly. "Whoever replaces you down here can obviously use it as a base of operations."

"Use my bookshop…" - that he had painstakingly purchased and renovated, paid humans to make it _just so._ Exactly as he had envisioned. Exactly as he had wanted.

He shouldn't have wanted.

Oh - _oh_ \- his books. In the custody of who - Michael? Uriel? They'd mishandle them, let them dust over and fall into dispassionate hands.

The other angels wouldn't _care_ for them. They responded well to care.

He'd gathered so many over the years, done what he could to keep them safe. Repaired damage with miracle-free hands.

(drunkenly read from several of them across decades and decades and decades to a grinning demon who rolled his eyes beneath darkened lenses but who always raised his glass with a - _you're ridiculous - no no keep going, angel, read me all your words!_ )

And yes, yes he was hoarding some of them. He knew enough of himself to know that. Material possessions. Things that were his. _His_.

"You get to come home."

You get to. You _get to._

They were allowing it. Allowing him back to that sterile place where he would tremor and cower. Where he would genuflect in deference and apprehension - on his knees longing for their love not to hurt so much, all while saying nothing.

What had he ever really said to them? What had they ever heard?

Aziraphale realised they were still talking at him. They had a medal. What on Earth was the medal for?

And then - _Crowley_ \- outside and waving. His heart hammered and hammered and hammered. They couldn't see him. He couldn't allow it. Two Archangels - Crowley wouldn't stand a chance.

(but he would try. crowley would try. to fight, to keep up the act. to protect _him_.

his heart ached.)

"But only I can properly thwart the wiles of the demon Crowley." Believe me believe me believe me. "He's been down here just as long as I have. And he's wily, and cunning and brilliant and…" And standing outside with a gift. Waiting to see the shop and celebrate.

"It almost sounds like you like him." Gabriel's words brought Aziraphale back into heightened focus. He needed to focus. They needed to believe him.

"I loathe him." It tasted bitter and rotted, this thing that had just coated his tongue, pushed past his teeth. His lips tasted acrid. "But despite myself, I respect a worthy opponent…which he isn't. He's a demon. And I don't respect him. Or like him." His stomach roiled and his legs shook.

He tried and he tried and he tried to push the feeling down.

He didn't like Crowley

He didn't.

Hadn't.

Had always. Always.

He had always liked Crowley.

\- the feeling burst up and out and landed in his throat. He coughed and coughed and tried not to gag. He couldn't let it live in this place, with these witnesses.

They would see Crowley destroyed. But what could he say? - please, leave me with my life that you think is transferable, with these humans that you see as a burden, with my friend who I cannot claim. 

With a heart so badly bruised from being continuously walked on.

(is this what She wanted?

for love to feel like a heel grinding into muscle to wear it down, into submission.

it felt wrong.

should love feel like a threat?

there was no one safe to ask.

they loved him.)

They left him in smiling despair - a medal in hand and false upward turn on his face. Enough to appease them, to show he was happy. Of course he was happy. Of course.

Simple. It was simple.

Aziraphale reached for the newly shelved books. He was supposed to pack.

No.

He wasn't.

He wasn't to bring anything with him.

Leave it all behind.

Where had Crowley gone?

####  **The Distance between Unmoored Points**

Later, much later, when the wine was flowing freely and the floor beneath the empty shelves seemed like the best place to sit, the bouquet that Crowley had brought with him lay beautiful and bold between them. (he should get a couch, some chairs, the space in the back would be nice. for them. the pair of them. "I don't know what changed their minds.

"She moves in mysterious ways, angel."

"Oh hush, you. They let me keep the medal."

"You hate medals."

Aziraphale paused and considered. "Yes. I do… you always remember." It was softer than he meant it to be, maybe. He had had a lot to drink.

Crowley was sprawled on the floor with reddened cheeks and a toothy grin. It always seemed to be pointed at him. He tried not to focus on the feeling it produced, but didn't bury it either. "S'good to know your enemy, for wiling purposes."

"I'm sure if I'd explained to them that I wanted to stay - I don't know why I didn't."

Crowley was sharply upright, suddenly. He'd lost track of the movement. He'd forgotten that Crowley could strike like a snake. "They don't like you, Aziraphale."

He didn't even think before the words were out of his mouth. "Of course they love me, Crowley. They're angels. Archangels. You're just…you're just trying to sow seeds of of of…" he trailed off, unwilling to say doubt, unwilling to think it of Crowley. Unwilling to admit the thoughts weren't his - indoctrinated thinking that he couldn't shake loose. The words sat in his mouth like a weapon. How much damage he could do.

(he'd been a soldier once.

he'd hated it.

he'd been the only one.)

Crowley's words were soft, gentle - "Like, angel. They don't like you."

He didn't know how words given so peaceably could feel like they had punctured his chest, wounded his already battered heart so surely. He stilled the muscle to stem the bleeding. (He restarted it almost immediately. Gabriel had made it clear he was not to modify his corporation’s behaviour without good reason. Was stopping himself from hurting a good reason? Gabriel was unlikely to think so.)

But they loved him. What did it matter if they didn't like him? It didn't make a difference.

Did it?

"It doesn't matter. They love me." What did it matter if it hurt? He could hear his voice trembling, feel it reverberating down his back. The tears pricked at the corner of his eyes as he wielded the sharpest sword he had - "They love me. What would _you_ know about that."

He watched Crowley's face crack and fall. The demon sat back hard against the shelves. His mouth hung open as silence escaped it.

A smile, so sad, so small, so desperate to exist pulled at the corner of Crowley's lips. "Nothing, angel. I wouldn't know anything about it."

The weight of it sat heavy between them and he hated it, hated that he'd caused it, hated that he didn't hate the demon on his floor, in his life.

Crowley downed the end of his drink and stood. "I'll shove off then."

"Crowley - I." He pulled himself upright. He wanted to fix it. Fix the damage he'd done.

No one had ever shown him how.

"S'fine. Don't - put the flowers in water, yeah. It's a good shop, Aziraphale. You've done good. The humans'll love it."

"Oh, not too much, I hope." Ease it ease it ease it, pretend he hadn't punished Crowley for caring for him better than anyone else.

Crowley hmm'd in response, nothing as concrete as a laugh and headed for the door. "Night, angel." There was a feeling there, just below the surface of Crowley's skin - the edge of it tinged and peaked out - he could see it barely -

Aziraphale balled his fist and held on tight. Demons can't love. Demon's don't love. He repeated it like a refrain, like a prayer.

He couldn't be loved by a demon. (It would hurt, wouldn’t it?)

He couldn’t be loved by a demon.

That rule was simple. He could follow that rule.

Crowley didn't love him.

He couldn't.

 _They_ couldn't.

It would kill them both.

He would never be forgiven.

(Crowley would forgive.

he tried not to cry.

he failed.

he was always failing.)

####  **Drowning on the Driest Land**

Holy water.

Holy water.

How _dare_ he. How dare Crowley ask this of him. To give him the keys to his own destruction - it would leave nothing of Crowley behind, no trace, no chance of another corporation. No future.

He paced the shop floor, over and over and over. Walking a tread into the rug, the sigil for Heaven beneath his feet.

He'd lose him forever. This - this friendship that should never have been theirs, this partnership.

(this safety

this care)

He knew he had hurt Crowley the last time they had barely spoken since the bookshop had opened - the odd exchange of assignments here and there, but nothing substantial, nothing that felt like _them_.

And now.

Now Crowley was asking for the one thing that could extirpate him completely. And he'd wanted his help to do it.

He made his way to the back office and sat heavily, his bones felt so heavy. The marrow dense with impending grief.

He took out the words that Crowley had hurled at him, pulled them out slowly to inspect them.

_I have lots of other people to fraternize with, angel._

_I don't need you._

He turned them and twisted them and dug fingers into his palms to tear them all apart.

Another person willing to toss him aside, to leave him alone.

Another person he had failed.

He was so tired of failing. He was so tired.

Maybe Gabriel was right. Maybe he'd been on Earth too long, forgotten some things. Every time he went back to Heaven there seemed to be something he'd forgotten, some way of being that he was getting wrong. 

He was getting it wrong.

Aziraphale was lifting the rug before he even realised he had decided to move. He lit the candles, made the sigil ready. The circle flared bright. 

"Hello?"

"Yes, Aziraphale?" The voice sounded ambivalent, but still of Heaven.

"I - " He paused. Unsure, and deeply stricken. " - I'd like to come home, please."

He stepped into the light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the wee baby is now a month old and life is obviously very chaotic but i'm managing to hang in here with updates every two weeks, hopefully i can stay on top of this!
> 
> thanks so much for reading <3
> 
> come say [hi on tumblr](caffeinechic.tumblr.com)
> 
> comments/kudos/dms are welcome!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale busied himself with lighting lamps, fetching glasses and wine. He placed the briefcase with the books on his desk, fussed over removing them, aligning them just so. He couldn't - he couldn't look at Crowley. Not directly.
> 
> Not with his body under so much stress.
> 
> "I looked for you." Crowley paused, he could hear the caution in it, the concern - "Aziraphale - where'd you go?"
> 
> Aziraphale finally turned, any pretense of nonchalance he had hoped to portray evaporated almost immediately as he sat in his chair.
> 
> He looked at Crowley, his mouth pursed around "home" read to exhale it into the room.
> 
> But.
> 
> "Heaven."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i can't thank [Princip1914](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Princip1914) enough for the time and effort and advice they gave me on helping with this chapter. an excellent friend, a wonderful beta.

####  **The Messianic Dissolution**

The shop door bell rang out their entrance as Aziraphale held the door open for Crowley, the demon off balance with pained steps - blisters and welts throwing off the usual swagger.

The things that Crowley had endured.

He couldn't think about it. The feeling in his chest was heavy. Dangerous. He knew its name. And he was afraid. The first conscious blush of it in a decimated church, surrounded by the dead and his demon saviour.

How long had he been ignoring it? This squirming thing that was clawing at his insides, trying to free itself from the rubble he had spent centuries burying it under. How many times had he pushed it down and down and down to keep it protected - from Heaven, from himself.

It had felt safe, for a moment. 

And beautiful.

It wanted to breathe - this thing that was scrabbling and mauling, threatening to escape and be known. It wanted air and room to grow. 

It was going to break his bones in its urgency.

(he'd be in so much trouble.)

But.

The bones bowed and cracked and made space for it to bloom.

He was so confused.

He settled Crowley on the couch, lifted his feet to ease the pressure from the burns.

Aziraphale busied himself with lighting lamps, fetching glasses and wine. He placed the briefcase with the books on his desk, fussed over removing them, aligning them just so. He couldn't - he couldn't look at Crowley. Not directly.

Not with his body under so much stress.

"I looked for you."

He stilled. The flat of his hand pressed against the topmost book. A grounding. He couldn't look.

Crowley's voice was soft but irritated - "Found that idiot - what's their name? The one that looks like they've never seen solid matter before?"

"Gael. Yes." The name was ash in his mouth. Gael had performed a job. Gael had not _cared._

"That's the one - gave them a bit of trouble, for appearances. Couldn't have your lot thinking you had it easy while I waited. Right pain in the arse they were. Tried to smite me. Missed by a mile. Complete twit." Crowley paused, he could hear the caution in it, the concern - "Aziraphale - where'd you go?"

Aziraphale finally turned, any pretense of nonchalance he had hoped to portray evaporated almost immediately as he sat in his chair.

He looked at Crowley, his mouth pursed around "home" read to exhale it into the room.

But.

"Heaven."

**hold your hallowed ground**

"You should have used the main stairs. The portal is for emergency use, Aziraphale. Not for your private transportation."

He had been back what felt like both a minute and one hundred years. Michael had met him with a smile that did not seem wholly glad to exist. He was aware, peripherally, that he was being scolded for having used his own keys rather than asking for permission to come in.

(a wave of penitence washed over him in this space called home. it tried to pull him to his knees.

he kept his legs straight.

knocked a fist against his thigh.

he hadn't done anything wrong.

he hadn't.)

**###**

"Heaven? This whole time? Thought we'd - you'd - _you'd_ gotten out of that whole promotion thing?"

What could he say that wouldn't loosen the debris holding back his feelings - that he had fled back to the only place that should be safe? That Crowley had asked for Holy Water and words like _fraternizing_ and _other people_ had lain between them and he had begged to be taken back into the fold, to be held secure.

"I - asked to go back."

"Asked. Right. Course." The silence settled heavy on top of them. Crowley drank his wine, swallowed audibly. "This temporary then? You being here?"

**###**

“Why are you here, Aziraphale?” A stretch on each syllable, an elongation of the end. 

(had she always said his name like that - like she was trying to pull him apart?)

"I needed to come home. I think, perhaps, I have been stationed below for longer than is good for me. Another - another Angel might do better." The words stuttered and trampled over themselves, fumbled and fell. A mess on the pristine floor. 

Michael regarded him with something akin to suspicion. He hadn't done anything wrong. He hadn't. He hadn't.

(nothing they could _prove_.)

"Alright, Aziraphale. If you need to be here. We can find a replacement. Temporarily."

(you can stay here. but you cannot _stay_.

he heard her, let her words slide between his lungs.

it was no harder to breathe than usual.

he supposed he was used to it now.)

A “supervisory role” was how they had framed it, in the end, after they had met without him behind closed doors, left him standing in the sterile hall with his deafening heartbeat and aching nerves. They had asked no other questions. The door had opened and a judgement had been handed out. He was to receive Gael's reports. He was to stamp Gael's reports. He was to file Gael's reports.

He had thought, perhaps, he could assist with policy - use his knowledge to help direct where the humans needed help the most. He wanted to help. He knew where they ached. (he ached there too.)

But.

Gabriel had brooked no argument - “Aziraphale - you’ve never been great at making your own decisions, so we’ll take them off your hands. This is for the best.”

There was no need for him to do anything else.

There was no need for him to leave the space they had set aside for him, an isolated corner. Quiet. To help him focus.

Busy work.

There was no need for him.

####  **The Gravitational Pull of Bodies in Orbit**

He stared at Crowley's index finger, watched it map the rim of his wine glass, thinking of how their skin had touched so briefly. An overlap of corporations.

A slow drag of contact. Over in an instant.

He couldn't stop thinking about it.

Or Crowley's smiling mouth, telling him to shut up, meaning not a word of it.

He should be removing Crowley's shoes, sliding fingers into his socks and dragging them over his feet. He should have a bowl, water. He should be helping him - bearing witness to the wounds.

**###**

They had sent him down to Corporations. Another inspection. The angel there - whose name had never been offered, despite his repeated inquiries - was never pleased. 

She cast a hundred eyes over him - "This isn't how the corporations should turn out from extended use"

"Its - its lived in."

"You're not supposed to be _living_ , Principality. We have discussed this at length."

(they had not, to Aziraphale’s recollection, spoken of it at all.

but then.

a sharp and searing pain to his side as the unsaid words found their way in.

he had not been part of the _we.)_

He worried his ring around his finger, spun it once, twice, three times over. His hands were unsteady, his voice more so. "It's necessary in order to blend in. To experience things as they do, to better serve them. They have a lot of feelings. They - they love very differently than we do."

"We're angels, Principality, our love is endless to those who deserve it. It's better than theirs."

(Was it though - endless? They had cast out so many.

So many. And yet. His thoughts filled with just one.)

"Yes. Those who deserve it." He repeated the words, a response to the refrain. 

(that was the problem though, wasn't it? deserving it.)

Did he deserve this? Any of it? He had so many questions that he could never ask. He buried them deeper and deeper. Pushed them in beside the feelings he wasn't supposed to have. The ones he hoarded under rocks and scree. The ones that burned when he thought of Crowley.

His face filled with heat, cheeks aglow.

####  **Fear of Flight**

His empty hands twisted around themselves, knotted and fidgeted, pulled at the bottom of his waistcoat, anything to stop them reaching out. 

He should be helping. 

"I can't heal them, I'm afraid." And he was - afraid. Afraid of pressing their skin together, afraid to run a miracle down Crowley's flesh, afraid of being asked to explain it.

(afraid that he would like it too much.

he couldn't trace his power along Crowley's skin.

to be on his knees in an absence of prayer, whispering absolution for a demon's holy trespass.

he would be undone with it.

who would forgive _him?_ )

"Don't care about the burns - demon, remember? You didn't answer my question."

"No, I suppose I didn't." He didn't want to talk about it. Not with Crowley. How could he say _"they didn't want to keep me"_ or _"I didn't want to stay"_ to a fallen angel while his own wings still glowed white. "We decided I would be better off in my role on Earth."

**###**

Gael's reports hadn't changed with tone or urgency, but it was there, in the dispassionate details. A war. Not the first he'd ever seen. It didn't make it easier.

He had tried. 

"They're killing each other, Gabriel - they need help, more angels on the ground."

"Aziraphale we just can't spare anyone right now - very busy, lots of intake these days."

"Yes, that's exactly my point!" 

"What is?" Gabriel’s back was turned to him - a broad-shouldered wall of disinterest. "Listen.” An order. “This is all part of the plan. There is nothing to worry about." 

(he worried and worried and worried and couldn't get through to them.)

"You don't hear a word I say." He exhaled it, let the words exist in the purest of air. A piece of himself he had been holding on to started to slip through his fingers, he gripped tighter, dug it into a meaningless lifeline, let it carve it’s way back into his palm. He had to believe they would do the right thing. 

He had to. 

They had to. 

"What was that?" 

"Nothing. Nothing at all." He went back to the reports. Memorized every one of them. Every name, every date. He wouldn't let it go unwitnessed. Someone had to care. They would come around. They had to.

It took a second war that sprawled the world, more than a second attempt at asking for help to be sent. More than a second request denied.

He had looked around at the passive faces of the Host, the Archangels who dismissed the horror as humans being humans.

And he knew.

He had made a mistake.

They accepted his transfer request back before he had even finished submitting it.

####  **The Reckless Refraction**

Crowley hauled himself up and disappeared behind the staircase - re-emerged with a dusty bottle in hand. He hissed with every step.

"What are you doing? You need to stay off your feet!" Aziraphale was in front of him in an instant - reaching out a hand that he couldn’t seem to control. It failed to make contact. (he should have been relieved.)

"Think we need the good stuff tonight." Crowley waved the bottle of Talisker. "So what's the plan? Do you have a plan? Course you do, you always have a plan. Not always a good one. Well always a _good_ one, you know what I mean - what do you think will help them?"

"What?" The question caught him around the heart, squeezed the chambers until it missed a beat. He panicked, reset it.

(his plan had led him to enemies and deceit, to the ruination of a church. 

to a demon who now stood hobbled through choice, through choosing _him._

with open hands asking what he wanted next.)

His eyes tracked Crowley’s fingers, trying to open the bottle while rolling from foot to foot. His unbalanced demon attempting to give him what he needed. He couldn’t look away, his gaze drawn up to Crowley’s mouth as more words spilled out.

"You’re back now, yeah? Gotta try to get these humans to settle down a bit, even Hell’s put out with the influx. Can’t say I’m a fan. So what do you want - " 

The end of the sentence was lost to an unknowable future, a splintered timeline that spun away from them as Aziraphale pressed his lips to Crowley's.

He pulled back, a second, a restarted heartbeat's thump - before he propelled himself forward again, caught by Crowley's safe-harbouring hands, Crowley's mouth opened beneath his, deepening the kiss, allowing this intrusion, this impertinence -

(like he was welcome

like he was wanted.)

The bottle pressed into his lower back as Crowley pulled him closer, coiled around him. Held him close. A choice. 

It was gradual. It was instantaneous. Every word of heavenly provenance that had pierced and cleaved inside of him for so long, cutting and sawing their way through his worth, ceased their movements. 

Crowley's tongue slid along his, slow but definite with intent. The demon’s free hand tugged at a curl at the base of his neck, wound it around a finger, pulled it once as he bit down gently on Aziraphale’s lower lip. 

(his mouth was made for prayer.

what was She hearing now?)

A stillness settled over him. His lungs expanded, and filled, pushed out against his ribcage. Relaxed again, absent of strain. Over and over and over. 

He breathed. 

He took up space.

There was so much room inside of him. Space for that struggling thing inside that begged to be heard, to be known.

His fractious bones knit back together. 

He grasped at Crowley's back, dragged his fingertips along the length of the demon, to hips that met his and surged forward, walked them backwards. 

His lungs expanded and crushed every slicing syllable, ground them against his bones and turned them to ash. His mouth on Crowley’s, their bodies moving together. Welcome. Wanted.

They hit the desk, Crowley’s grasp tightening on him as he realised too late that the bottle was no longer pressed against his back, as both of Crowley’s hands gripped his waist. The bottle dropped. Smashed, glass fragmented on the floor, it’s contents rushed to escape and stain everything it could reach. 

“You ok?” Crowley’s mouth on the underside of his jaw, clever fingers traced patterns on his sides. Carefully. Crowley treated him with so much care. 

(he reached out slowly with his power, and found nothing but Truth.

and something else.

he retracted immediately. 

afraid.

it didn’t hurt.

Crowley’s love didn’t hurt. 

he didn’t know how to exist with it.)

Aziraphale startled as the moment cracked, fissured out from where they stood entwined. He drew in a breath that no longer felt easy. He shuddered with the effort of it. 

It didn't hurt. It didn't hurt. 

(it was supposed to hurt. wasn’t it?

why didn’t it hurt?)

It broke him open.

He wasn’t ok.

It didn’t hurt.

The dissipating words of heavenly voices coalesced, reformed from their ashes, the atoms of them retracting in space, shaper and more dangerous in their resurrection.

Shrapnel through his body. A thousand cuts. He was flooded with grief. 

He couldn’t have Crowley and keep Heaven. 

(the loss would be too immense. how could a single demon fill that void?

if he let heaven go, if he loved them less, if he gave up everything he had ever tried to cling to - 

what had been the point?

why had he suffered? 

they were made of the same firmament. he was supposed to fit with them.

he was defective.

he couldn’t let them go.

his palms ached.)

He pushed Crowley away. An arm’s length of distance, tried to catch his breath. He couldn’t breathe. 

(he wanted to take Crowley upstairs.

to _love_ him.

to hold him in his hands.

but.

his palms ached with every rule that had ever been etched into them.

he ached and ached and ached.)

“Angel?”

“Yes.” But not in answer to the question.

An Angel. 

Yes. 

Loved by a Demon. 

He was terrified. It didn’t hurt.

(the truth of it hollowed him out. 

he wished it didn’t matter.

he wished that he loved them only as much as they loved him - in pieces and with condition.

he wished he could make the choice.) 

Crowley took a step towards him and he held his hands up in defence, to protect them both.

He wanted and wanted and wanted and he knew he couldn't have.

And he knew what he would do next would hurt Crowley.

(but.

love was supposed to hurt, wasn’t it?)

"You should go. I - shouldn't. I shouldn't have. We can't. I don't - "

The fear settled deep and fraught in his chest, a pulsing thing that wouldn't be stilled.

How would he ever explain it? How would he ever keep Crowley safe?

(defective.

an angel in love with a demon.

the rules were simple.

the others would never forgive him.

Crowley - )

He could see it etching into Crowley's face, frown lines, pain.

Love was supposed to hurt.

The tears threatened and bullied and would not be held back, they tracked down his cheeks as his body shuddered to keep in a sob. He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, wet and burning and beyond the edges of his control.

"I'm sorry - I want - I can't." (he wanted. he couldn't.)

When he finally gathered enough courage to lower his hands he was faced with Crowley - tinted glasses in hand, yellowed eyes red rimmed and raw, not a tear broken free but only from the sheer determination that streamed from the demon's body.

“Aziraphale - we can be -.”

“No.” It tore his throat, bruised his lips.

(they couldn’t)

The tears hadn’t stopped. “You would be destroyed.”

“They don't love you. Not the way they should.”

It was too much too much too much the thing that wasn’t said, the thing that Crowley meant. 

The words burst out of him, broke out of his chest - a roar, a cry, a desperate belief. “ _It doesn’t matter!”_

It didn’t. It didn’t matter. “ _I_ love _them.”_

Crowley’s voice was a broken whisper. “Only them?”

(he only knew how to love when it hurt.)

“You need to leave. I need you to leave.” 

(i need you. 

please. 

don’t leave.)

The shop bell rang out.

Crowley always gave him what he asked for.

####  **A Refrain With No Response**

It sat with him through the night, and then many more after that. The regret. The shame. The ache. Solid and real as a physical presence, in place of the one who had left.

(why had he spent so long hurting?

this was how he had received their love, through aches and pains and a desire to be made right in eyes that couldn’t stand to look at him.

what was wrong with him?

he couldn’t let them go.

but.

maybe.

he could reach for more.

he could try.)

**###**

_you go too fast for me_

His own words twisted and coiled around his ribs. Wound themselves around and around and around. 

He was trying. He was. 

He was trying. 

But. 

(maybe he would move faster if his bones weren't so steeped in shame, if he didn't always feel like he was making the wrong choice. 

like he was _being_ wrong. 

like he was failing. heaven. crowley. 

a choice he couldn't bring himself to make. 

his bones were porous, soaking up regret and worry.

there'd be so many questions.)

Aziraphale had blessed the water himself. 

Put Crowley's life in his own hands.

Put his own in them too.

He prayed that he hadn't made a mistake.

She didn't answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading 🖤
> 
> i think we're on a 3 weekish update schedule now as life with two small children, is unsurprisingly: busy!
> 
> also if you're looking for something else to read during these strange days we find ourselves in you should do yourself the solid of [the false and the fair](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25944682)
> 
> am a dummy and can't figure out how to get rid of the second end note. the baby is no longer 5 days old! they are 8 weeks. what even is time anymore (i fixed it! thanks ashfae!!)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale closed his eyes, allowed himself to feel out through the edges of his corporation, focus on the moment - the quiet of the restaurant, the aroma of the sushi, the stillness of this time that was his. The tension in his bones settled a fraction. 
> 
> The static build up of an incoming miracle lit up his spine, dancing sparks over vertebrae and neurons as his back lit up, straightened with anticipation. He breathed in deeply, held the air a moment and let the fullness of his chest press out and out and out. He exhaled slowly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you know who remains just super: [Princip1914](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Princip1914) \- i mean: legend. a super beta and bean.

####  **dreams for the sleepless**

He had seen Crowley, sparingly, since that night. A thermos exchanged. The Ritz, picnics - a future that seemed safe to discuss in its unlikelihood.

He'd made peace with it, out of necessity. Forced them backwards, apart.

He knew how to love from a distance. That was all he had ever done.

(he knew that now. maybe, he had always known it. how to be separate from those you love.

but.

this was different.

it was different. knowing.

that maybe.

the others had been loving him wrong.

he dug his nails into his palm. unfair of him, that was unfair.

he kept repeating it - unfair unfair unfair, over and over and over. he needed to believe, to have faith. that their love, however much it hurt, was still enough. it would be enough. it would have to be.)

A choice avoided. (it flashed incessantly in the periphery of his vision, a thousand eyes steadily ignored it.)

####  **tricks of the light**

Aziraphale closed his eyes, allowed himself to feel out through the edges of his corporation, focus on the moment - the quiet of the restaurant, the aroma of the sushi, the stillness of this time that was his. The tension in his bones settled a fraction. 

The static build up of an incoming miracle lit up his spine, dancing sparks over vertebrae and neurons as his back lit up, straightened with anticipation. He breathed in deeply, held the air a moment and let the fullness of his chest press out and out and out. He exhaled slowly.

A look to his left.

The space remained void.

The static built and buzzed and popped electric sparks to his most frayed nerves as he realised his error. Gabriel's face in the mirror. At his back. He tried not to jolt. He focused.

He could do this. He'd _been_ doing this.

**###**

They had sent a note. They hadn't sent one in so long that the gold trimmed paper that appeared felt foreign, peculiar in his hand. He hadn’t heard from them, been in their presence since he had placed his feet back on Earth, reclaimed his position. The communication had been one way - reports filed, prayers uttered, never a reply. There was a freedom in the consistency of it, in the thickening silence. The paper sliced through it.

A summons. It was a summons. He knew it for what it was. For what it had always been. A time. A date. Both meaningless really, they meant now and today and that he was already delinquent.

(even as time had been partitioned and labelled and tied to the turning of the earth that She had made, they still ignored it as a human thing, a human invention, unworthy of them.

what did time matter when you were forever?

it mattered enough, when they could say he was late. when they could use it against him.

that mattered a great deal.

he could see it now.)

A wall of archangels met him at the top of the escalator. Hands folded to their fronts. never opened, never welcoming. these were not arms that would embrace him, hold him safe. They were a barricade. He was not permitted in further.

He reached out, a stretch of power that would not be out of place there, and found it, waiting. The shape of it, its edges, sharp and precise. They loved him exactly enough.

(enough to check a box.

enough for it to be True.

but.

no more than that.

and not by choice.)

He couldn't walk away. Heaven was still - it was where he was formed and shaped - it was where She had willed him into being. She had made him. Made the others too. They were the same. They were the same. They were the same. It would need to be enough. That this was how they loved him.

This is what She wanted. And if it hurt - then that must be what She wanted too. Ineffable. It wasn't his to question. It wasn't.

(even if he ached with it.

even if now he could hold crowley's love up to the light and see refractal patterns blaze gloriously from it and through him, and feel nothing nothing nothing but ease, but safety, but acceptance.

it was nothing. a trick of the light.

a trick he played on himself.

it would have to be.)

"You wanted to see me?" Aziraphale offered the words in confusion, concern, as he looked at the straight-backed rampart of archangels before him.

Gabriel's posture held strong and firm - there would be no passing them, no way through. "We thought you could do with some one to one attention."

(one to one.

but.

why were there four of them then?

_oh._

they were one.

and he was.

other.)

"I - I see. How can I be of help?"

"Oh, there's nothing you can do. But we want you to be here more often. Give your reports in person from now on, to all of us."

"In person." He repeated it back, not comprehending.

"Yes, Aziraphale. Your updates will be in person."

Oh no. They couldn't mean it, not really. They didn't want him back here. He knew he knew he knew - just enough. They loved him just enough - they didn't want to _see him_. 

Why would they want this? 

What could they see? 

What did they know?

"Oh?" It sounded wrong, strangled, he was twisting and gnarling and fighting it desperately. "Are - are my reports lacking in some way?"

Oh no. His reports - that Crowley had written, the confidence and flair that came naturally to him. He - he couldn't do that. In person.

What did they _know?_

He would have to say them out loud. Give voice to falsehoods in this place. Make them believe him.

He had to keep them safe. Keep Crowley safe.

He'd practice. He'd get it right. He would get this right.

(he needed to make this work. he needed to fit.

they were supposed to be the same.

don't let them look too closely.)

"This is for your own good, Aziraphale. All part of the plan. Is it a problem?"

Yes, yes it was a problem, of course it was a problem.

But.

What could he say.

"No. No, of course not. In person. Thank you."

####  **the consumption of judgement**

"Why do you consume that? You're an angel." Gabriel pointed at the sushi, his face curdled and soured. This delicacy that had been so carefully made by human hands, prepared and laid out with love and pride.

"It's sushi. It's nice. You dip it in soy sauce and…it's what humans do. Tea?"

The misstep was immediate.

"I do not sully the temple of my celestial body with gross matter."

Unlike Aziraphale. That message was clear. An offer to share a meal, rebuked. A reminder, that he was different.

And that they could see it, when they chose to look.

(how closely were they looking?)

**###**

Crowley was sprawled across the couch, a rare sight these days but he had come when Aziraphale had called, a nervous bustle of please and if you like and should you be free sometime soon.

"Out with it, angel."

"Gabriel - well, all of them really, they want to see me in person from now on. For the reports."

Crowley's feet thunked to the ground as he sat forward. "Ah. That's - not - " His face made a complicated expression as he clearly tried to say something without actually having to expel the words from his body.

"What? Oh just say it."

"Not ideal is it? You're not the - you don't do well with them under pressure."

The truth of it wasn't worth denying. He cast his gaze around the room for something to focus on that wasn't the spool of demon sat on his couch, expressing concern.

He trained his eyes on the floor, to the right of his feet where a stain that was no longer there flared in his vision.

(the stain where the whisky had seeped into the rug, across the hardwood.

he'd miracled it away.

he knew it was there.

he knew it.

what they had done - what _he_ had done - couldn't be miracled away.

he didn’t want it to be.)

"What if they know?"

"What's to know, angel?" A dangerous question.

An answer that could destroy them both -

Would they be able to tell by looking, that Crowley's hands had been in his hair, that Crowley's tongue had pressed the length of his, that no holy words had passed his lips - only the softest sighs.

Would they see it - that he had been wanted. Did he look different to them now? He worried greatly.

(but also.

when had they ever really looked at him except to pick him apart.

he was always worried.

he wouldn't look any differently to them.)

He shifted, and started - "Crowley - " and stopped as the demon in question uncoiled from the couch and slouched his way forward, out of sight. He heard the squeak of the tap turning, the rush of water.

He stood and moved until Crowley was in view.

The water ran and ran and ran.

(he was so much better at staying still.

he took a step forward.)

"What are you doing?"

"Thinking. Waiting, maybe. Don't really know why I turned on the taps, don't need to drink this stuff - just felt like seeing something move. Wait - you haven't blessed this, have you?"

" _Blessed it_ \- for Heaven's sake, you idiot, do you think I'd let you anywhere near it if I'd _blessed_ it. You have more than enough Holy Water for me to worry about."

(he worried about it greatly. repeatedly. in the quiet hours of morning when nothing else moved, the thought of that thermos swarmed and thronged.

had he done the Right Thing?

he worried greatly -

at the tiny niggle at the base of his brain 

\- did it matter - if it was Right - 

as long as Crowley was safe?)

The water shut off with a snap of Crowley's fingers.

Aziraphale watched the movement of his shoulders, the line of his arms. Hands set now on the sink, holding, solid. He bowed his head, spoke to the porcelain and not to Aziraphale.

"Tell them - look, just tell them it was a temptation, yeah? Demonic interference that you withstood and bested. Banished away. Tell them that. If it comes up, it won't. But if it does. Just tell them that."

He didn't turn around. Aziraphale couldn't stand it, that Crowley would offer a lie, an out, but couldn't bear to look at him.

He took another step forward.

"That's not what happened." Quiet, but sure.

"Could be though. Could be what happened."

"Crowley. That's _not_ what happened." Stronger, definite.

"No. It's not." Crowley turned, his face full of something that could never be called hope, something rawer, more desperate. "Aziraphale - "

He crumpled under the weight of it, but stood on the ground he had chosen through his own inaction.

"No."

"Yeah." Crowley pushed off the sink, shuffled past him on his way back to the couch, a hair's breadth too close.

(the backs of their fingers ghosted over each other, atoms reaching for atoms.

he balled his hand into a fist.

he couldn't.

he turned, watched the rest of Crowley's journey to the couch, all hips and sway and false bravado.

_Graceful. He’s still so graceful._

the shame that had lived with that thought since it had first bloomed in Eden failed to rear its head. 

he didn’t let it worry him.)

####  **the reflective acoustics of panic**

Gabriel remained standing over him, forcing Aziraphale to either rise to his level, or look up at him, to him. Aziraphale remained seated, his leg shook under the table. He focused. Steadied it. He could do this.

(three times now, reports in person. he had practiced each time, over and over and over. what to say, how to say it, pushed down the panic until it sat heavy like a weight, pressing down on secrets that he needed to hide. 

the words never flowed like water, all rocks and pebbles falling from his mouth. clattering and echoing around him.

there was no time now, to practice, to prepare. 

he held a fist against his tremoring thigh.)

"We have reliable information that things are afoot."

He rolled words around his mouth, shaped them into something easy, something that couldn’t boulder their way out. "They are?"

"My informants suggest that the demon Crowley may be involved."

(what did they know, how closely were they looking?)

"You need to keep him under observation, without, of course, letting him know that's what you're doing…"

He couldn’t stop the avalanche of words. “I do know. I’ve been on Earth doing this since the beginning.” He tried to hold back the ragged edged skree, that this was _his_ post, his duty.

Gabriel wouldn’t care.

The rest of the conversation faded in and out, he could barely remember it - only that Crowley's name had been mentioned and definitely - yes definitely there had been something about the end of the world. Armageddon.

He wandered back to the bookshop in a haze when Gabriel had snapped away like he hadn't just proclaimed the end was coming.

Be not afraid.

He was though, very very afraid.

He needed to contact Crowley.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> right so my every two week's plan obviously imploded - but here we are!
> 
> thanks so much for reading and sticking with me on this - i love to hear your thoughts in comments, or hit me up on [tumblr](caffeinechic.tumblr.com) or discord
> 
> i'm now just using my end notes to also rec other fics: [Anti_Kate's](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anti_kate/pseuds/Anti_kate) AU [An Ending (Ascent)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24590107/chapters/59394199) is amazing and a big rec from me


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He let himself enjoy the thought, let it seep into the cracks in his bones, let it fill the spaces until he felt solid. Complete. He let himself _feel._
> 
> "Well, I'll be damned." The words slipped free before he could catch them. Too relaxed, too still. 
> 
> "It's not that bad once you get used to it." 
> 
> It snapped him shut, pulled the air from the room, his lungs. Cracked his bones anew. 
> 
> Damned damned damned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so much thanks, as always, to [Princip1914](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Princip1914) for their continued help and excellent advice.

####  **happiness is not harp shaped**

"No more fascinating little restaurants where they know you. No gravlax with dill sauce. No more old bookshops. No more Regency silver snuffboxes." All the small delights that he had never had to tell Crowley, but which he apparently knew, kept cataloged. He let the weight of it, the shape of that knowledge expand and settle. He didn't know what to do with it now, and so - he let it be. Turned his attention back to the matter at hand. The end of all those things.

The party line fell from his mouth - "But after we win, life will be better for everybody."

(not the human bodies though. not those ones.

he had been sent to earth to watch over them.

and now. they wanted him to watch the humans be decimated, 

to watch them be wiped out, again.

there would be no rainbow this time.)

"You'll be as happy with a harp as I'll be with a pitchfork."

"We don't play harps." Well. _He_ didn't. Not anymore. Truth be told he didn't particularly enjoy it. And it had, at the time, made him feel ill. To not enjoy a past time that the others did, to not connect to it - to pluck at strings and feel nothing but disconnect.

But.

He breathed in, and looked around - this earth had shown him so many things that he _did_ enjoy, that he _did_ connect to.

Crowley shifted at his side.

He looked.

(when Heaven won, life would be better for everybody.

but.

not Crowley's body.

and not, he understood now, _his_ either.)

**###**

"We've only got eleven years. Then it's all over. We have to work together." There was desperation there, in Crowley's voice. He could hear it - this plea - for help, for _them_.

"No." He had to say no. He had to. They couldn't work together, _be_ together. It was impossible - the others would know. They would _know_. Whatever bravado he had mustered these past years, to appear confident and sure when he spoke to them - it would be fully untenable if he had to hide a - a plot, a partnership. The arrangement - they had traded assignments, written each other's reports - but they had never done anything _together_.

(except for -

he couldn't think of that.

not now.

not ever, maybe.

except.

when the memory would slam into him unbidden and he would misstep his own feet.

he was so worried about a misstep.)

They'll have lunch. They'll go to The Ritz. It wouldn't count. The world was going to end.

They couldn’t be together.

####  **the construction of family and other complex structures**

"Look! It’s not that I disagree with you." He didn't, he didn't disagree. He didn't want the world to end, he didn't want a war. He had given away the only weapon that had ever been entrusted to him, handed it to humans for protection.

(he'd been a soldier once.

he'd hated it.

he'd been the only one.

the others must have been built for it, for the fight of it, for the roar of it. 

principalities are built to defend. to protect. 

he liked the quiet.

defective. his wiring was wrong.

But.

She didn’t make mistakes. 

what was he?)

"But, I'm an angel. I'm not _allowed_ to disobey." And that was the crux of it. Obedience. He had his orders. Her rules. 

Follow the rules. Her love remains endless. Follow the rules. 

Follow the rules.

He wasn't allowed to disobey. He wasn't allowed.

He loved. And it wasn't allowed.

His love wasn't allowed.

Follow the rules.

"You think I am? My people are only into disobedience in general terms. Not when it applies to them." And that worried him greatly. That Crowley, too, was not allowed. To do this. To have this. And yet, he wanted - he knew that Crowley wanted, and would bend and twist and whorl every rule to allow it.

They kept pulling towards each other. He kept drawing away. Trying to. Pull away. Increase the distance. 

He could feel it in the space between their beings, their atoms. 

(nothing existed in that void.

atoms were held together by forces of attraction.

he tried not to stare.

he was tired.

of all the trying.)

They weren't allowed.

Follow the rules.

"You see a wile, you thwart. Am I right?"

Well.

Thwarting wiles. That was a rule. He was supposed to do that. He had permission to do that. It wasn’t disobedience if it was following the rules.

Aziraphale’s fist, tight and balled, relaxed. Every rule he had ever known, etched into his palm. "Heaven couldn't actually object to me thwarting you…" He raised his arm and reached out, reached for Crowley with an open hand. Crowley didn't hesitate, slid his fingers along the outstretched palm, fingertips dancing briefly on his heartline as they slid forward, running the length of lines that could not hold his life, were not his fate. 

(every rule he had ever known, etched into his palm. Crowley skirted all of them.)

Their hands aligned. They shook.

"We could be godfathers, sort of."

Aziraphale sat back and let it wash over him. Godfathers. Crowley and him. Godfathers. A - family - of a sort.

A family.

He was already part of a family.

(just enough.

just enough for it to count.

just enough for it to hurt.

just enough.)

But. A family. With Crowley. He let himself enjoy the thought, let it seep into the cracks in his bones, let it fill the spaces until he felt solid. Complete. He let himself _feel_. He let it sit peacefully inside him, let it touch the air.

Gave himself permission.

"Well, I'll be damned." The words slipped free before he could catch them. Too relaxed, too still. 

"It's not that bad once you get used to it." 

It snapped him shut, pulled the air from the room, his lungs. Cracked his bones anew. 

Damned damned damned. 

For wanting. 

"Crowley - "

"No."

"You don't know what I was going to say." How could he, when Aziraphale barely knew himself, just knew that he’d be damned for their actions. For what he wanted.

For who he wanted. 

"I know you." There was nothing there to argue with. It was enough, more than enough. Because Crowley had chosen it, chosen to know him. 

(chosen him.

damned.

damned.

damned.)

Crowley stood, sat back down. Fidgeting. He did that when he was unsure. (he knew Crowley, too.) "Why are you saying yes?" As though he hadn't spent the better half of the evening convincing him, leading him to this point. (as though Aziraphale hadn't gone willingly, followed him there.)

“Does it matter? I’ve agreed. Isn’t that what you wanted?” 

Crowley’s eyes locked with his. “I haven’t _tempted_ you to this.” 

No. He hadn’t. Aziraphale had chosen. To find a rule and all it’s loops and holes, and walk himself right through them.

Crowley cleared his throat. “Don't want you to -” A pause, a swallow. Crowley so rarely slowed down. Aziraphale worried the ring on his finger. He worried. “Don’t want you to regret it." Crowley fidgeted some more. “Does anyone ever ask you? What you want?”

"Of course they do." An automatic response, a tap to a verbal reflex. He reset himself. Crowley knew him. He knew Crowley too. "No. They don't." It made his heaven-issued heart ill and sore. But. It wasn’t new. And it was no longer shocking. 

A comfort in the sadness of it. 

Damned damned damned.

"Is it really?" The words drifted from him, seeking a soft place to land.

“What?” 

But he knew, that Crowley knew. No soft place here. He pushed gently. "Not that bad."

Crowley picked up his empty glass, put it down, placed his palm atop the rim. "Depends who you ask." 

"I'm asking you." Why was he pushing? Why? 

(because.

who else would let him?)

"Ask someone else, angel."

He recoiled a bit, sat up straighter. It stung. but not like it did with the others, with Heaven. There was no one else to ask. Crowley knew it, as did he. A gentle stop, if sore to the senses.

There was nothing they couldn't talk about

Except this, apparently.

And.

The other thing. That they never spoke of. Of shattered whisky bottles and tear stained cheeks, and kisses that still ghosted over this mouth, even when he formed pray with them.

(She must hear it, taste it on his words.

he never asked to be absolved of it.

it hadn't feel like sin.)

####  **blind bets of ethereal beings**

"I'll need to modify my corporation."

"What?" Not a why, not a request for a reason. A what. Because Gabriel hadn't been listening. He was no longer surprised. He pushed ahead.

"In order to - to properly evade the Demon Crowley, he will undoubtedly be present. So if you could - if you could approve the changes…" He trailed off, holding the necessary forms out while he tried to still the trembling in his hand.

Gabriel didn't look up. "Aziraphale, I could not possibly care less about this. Make the changes to your corporation; there's a war coming, you'll be parting with that body soon enough.” Gabriel finally deigned to raise his head, to cast his eyes along the length and breadth of him. Aziraphale tried to fold himself inwards, pull himself tight. They didn’t like him to take up space. “It's not as if you've been keeping it conditioned." 

No. No, he supposed he hadn't - but - Gabriel had said, hadn't he - he wasn't to make changes, he wasn't to, to change without permission. No unnecessary modifications.

He deflated with acceptance. There was a peace to it.

Oh. They didn't care. They just didn't care. He had been constrained and limited because they _could_ , not because it meant anything. And then they had immediately forgotten. It didn't matter. He didn't matter.

(a whisper. 

a flitter of movement in his peripheral vision.

he didn’t matter to _them_.)

Something hardened inside him. A small piece of him solidified and claimed space beneath his ribs. It lodged itself between the bones and in doing so it pushed and pushed and pushed, until it dislodged the memory, the words that Gabriel had uttered.

_This is not what we gave you_

He held the words steady in his mind, looked them over, his whetstone bones no longer sharpening them as they rubbed against the periosteum, wearing him down from the inside.

_This is not what we gave you_

He turned the words around and around and around until their edges softened, rounded, fit his corporation better. He let them settle back in.

( _this is not what we gave you_

no.

but it was his, now.

his.)

He liked his corporation and all of its softness, its fullness from living, from loving the creations of humans, those beings that She had made with care, and left with _him._

**###**

Crowley appeared in the doorway of the gardener’s cottage, expression revealing nothing as he leaned against the frame, appraised him. The eyes cast over him from top to tail over tilted down glasses and he felt a sudden brief lightning bolt of fear - impending judgement, damage to be done.

But.

A grin split open the demon's face, teeth and tongue and rouge-stained lips (he tried not to stare, tried not to think of those lips and teeth and tongue and all the damage they hadn't done.)

"How’d you get away with thisss?” The sss slithered and spooled around his nerves in a way that he found didn’t warrant complaint. He let the nerves light up and fizz.

“Formal request.” He was still quite pleased that he had completed the paperwork, submitted it in the required and unnecessary triplicate. Not at comma or dot out of place. They couldn’t have found fault with it, if they had bothered to check. “I told Gabriel it was necessary. A disguise." 

A disguise to hide from Crowley, who stood before him as he pleased, as he had always done, in whatever presentation had suited his mood, his assignment. Hell had never cared for details.

(what _did_ Hell care about? how worried should he be? for Crowley, for them. He worried.)

He couldn't bring himself to tell Crowley that it hadn’t mattered - the paperwork, the details. He had done everything right. It never mattered.

(shouldn’t Heaven care? about the details?

about _him_?

he couldn’t think about it. the fault must be his.

the world was ending.)

"I like it."

Azirphale's gaze snapped to Crowley's - "You do?" He had thought, perhaps, he had gone too far, the ruddiness, the teeth, the stockier build. But, he had had the opportunity, the _permission_ , and he had seized it with both hands. When might this chance come again? When might any of it? 

The world was ending.

"Yeah - haven't seen you -" Crowley stopped, looked away, the corners of his mouth twitched up gently. "You're having fun."

He was sure the redness of his cheeks did little to hide the blush that was warming his face. "I am trying to prevent the destruction of the world, as are you!" He tried to sound affronted, an attempt to hide the pleased rush through his belly.

(when had he ever been able to hide from Crowley?)

Crowley pushed himself from the doorframe, hip first, the fit of his skirt not stalling the motion. Aziraphale tried not to stare. 

He failed. 

(remorse for that fact did not stir.)

"Can still have some fun though, yeah? Or do you not want a cheeky drink in the kitchen later."

(he wanted so many things. for the world not to end. for the other angels to see that humans were worthy of them.

for the demon before him to be - to be what? his? he couldn’t have that. he could want and want and want but knew that couldn’t be. 

he wanted the world not to end.

Crowley was part of the world, his world, his.

he wanted.)

He smiled and buried the sadness that he felt thrumming through it. "Demon." He followed Crowley out.

####  **the binds of dutiful citizens**

They had to meet. They _had_ to. They needed to exchange reports, updates. Meeting away from the Dowling’s was sensible. It made sense. 

(he told himself over and over and over. 

this was the right thing to do. 

in service of the Right Thing.)

He needed to see Crowley. Not a facade, a disguise. He needed to be _himself_ , too. 

He needed to know that he wasn't alone in this, that they were in it together.

(this family.

that they had made.

temporarily. 

it was temporary. 

transient.

he already had a family.

a place that he had come from.

were those the same thing?

what had She made him for?)

**###**

They met on buses. 

They didn't sit together.

But. 

One time - Crowley had stretched out those long and coiling legs and slid them under his seat. 

The tips of snakeskin shoes had pressed into the instep of his loafers.

(they hadn't spoken of it.

when he pressed back.)

**###**

They met at concerts. 

Loud and awful things that Crowley insisted on so they could blend in better, hide in a roaring crowd. 

Crowley had to lean in, press lips against the shell of his ear so that he could be heard above the din. 

And if he had to fist a hand into the demon's shirt, to pull him close, to hear him better, to keep him _there_ \- necessary. Part of the plan. The right thing to do.

Nothing more.

It couldn't be.

(he knew what it looked like. 

he knew how it felt.

he couldn't think of it. 

he couldn't bear it.

the world was ending. 

and Crowley's mouth was against his skin.)

**###**

They met in the garden.

At the bench by the rose bushes that he was struggling to keep alive. Sat beside each other while Warlock ran and played and shouted. Hands on the pew between them. They had been this, done this, countless times throughout the ages. 

(except.

when he would come, from reporting to heaven in its gleaming sterility and he would clutch the bench in his hand and press and dig and dig until the line of wood was bearing in, until his knuckles whitened and ached.

every rule he had ever known. etched into his palm. 

he bore down against them in ways that didn't matter.

but then.

a pinky. painted and sharp nailed, against his own, against the paled and strained knuckle, once, twice, over the bone before settling.)

Crowley didn't look at him.

There were lots of things they didn't do.

Crowley cleared his throat, a lackluster smile trying to form on his face. "If we keep this up they'll think the nanny and the gardener are having an affair." He didn't take his finger away. He stroked again. 

(Aziraphale knew what they looked like. 

two people. together. 

a family.

he had one of those already.)

Azriaphale stared into the distance, lost in thought, in hope. “Maybe they should. Think it, I mean. It would be easier to meet.” 

(the world was going to end.

he’d be damned.)

He gripped the bench harder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi! i had to write this chapter in random 20 minute blocks so i feel like i've been working on it for 100 years.
> 
> thanks so much for reading and sticking with me on this - i love to hear your thoughts in comments, or hit me up on [tumblr](https://caffeinechic.tumblr.com) or discord.
> 
> i am gonna continue to rec good food from the end notes: so if you haven't given [Vialattea's](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vialattea/pseuds/vialattea) magnifcent wip [Call Me Your Angel](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25317961/chapters/61383823) a read, you should head on over that way now! Vialattea is killing it.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale drew the curling line of the mustache, a curlicue of preciseness to the left of his lip, made to make a match of it on the right.
> 
> Crowley moved, a flicker on his periphery before the demon appeared beside the mirror, leaning against it. Watching.
> 
> He over-arched the curl. (a thousand eyes, distracted)
> 
> "S'uneven, angel."
> 
> "Yes, thank you. I can see that."
> 
> Crowley stepped towards him, and he didn't back away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Princip1914](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Princip1914) deserves all the heartdudes that can be thrown at them for their beta work on this story. a gem of a human.

####  **a fear of knowing**

"I am proud to say - " And he had been. Proud. Satisfied. Hopeful. That the undertaking of these past years had not been in vain. He was succeeding. Doing the Right Thing. 

They could be proud of him. Pleased with him. 

Happy, maybe. To see him. 

But.

Gabriel spoke and he didn't understand. A language that wouldn't translate. He knew these words, he did. 

But.

"Very commendable. Excellent work, Aziraphale. As usual."

The words were sawing at his sternum. Back and forth, and back and forth, wearing a grove down his front. 

_Very commendable_

Back. 

_Excellent work_

And forth. 

_As usual_

Back and forth and back and forth.

He was going to sever and split, rupture down his center line.

Everything they said, and everything they didn't, cleaving him in two.

They'd given him a medal once, in trade for his bookshop; his bookshop, his purpose, the entirety of this life.

And now.

They gave him words.

In trade for the world. 

Did they even want to save it?

He walked away. 

(his footfalls loud and awkward. 

he tried to quiet them, walk more softly, disturb them less.

as he left.

and they remained.

they never saw him out.)

He stopped, at the top of the escalator - watched it descend over and over and over. 

Nothing ever changed.

He looked back.

(a pull deep inside of him.

he needed them.

didn't he?

they loved him.

just enough.)

He turned on his heel, followed the draw back to them. They had reformed in his absence, no longer a battlement to hold him at bay - they faced each other in a perfect circle, no way in.

Their voices carried. 

"Why are you keeping him on Earth?" 

"You'd rather he was here?"

Sandalphon laughed. Vicious. It echoed through Uriel, Michael; reverberated through Gabriel as they all seemed to laugh and laugh and laugh

Uriel’s voice sliced through the snickering, condescension coating every word. "What, have him back here so he can fidget in a corner again, trying to "help"? Influencing the child. He's the destroyer of worlds, and _Aziraphale_ thinks he can influence him." 

No one disagreed. 

But.

Gabriel had said.

_Excellent work_

(of keeping out of the way. so that they didn't need to think of him. so that they wouldn't need to deal with him.

oh.)

He was trying to stop the world from ending. And they were trying to keep him out of the way.

An urge to make it right pulsed through his veins. He was at fault. He would fix it. He could. He could be enough. He could be what they wanted of him.

He could. He could.

(but.

why had She made him so lacking?

why was he not enough already?)

They unfolded away from him, moved off in refined formation, his presence unnoticed. 

He was alone.

She was supposed to be here, to be everywhere. And yet. Even in this place, there was a spot. An allocated area. A purpose to all things. His feet carried him there.

He bowed his head, knotted his fingers.

And said nothing.

Asked for nothing.

The thoughts that tore through him, ripping him apart, were deafening, vertiginous.

He sank to his knees, an aberration from how the others would beseech her. 

But. 

His breaking bones would no longer hold his weight, aching with penitence for something he couldn't understand. 

_i feel confused by the plan. i don't want the humans to be destroyed._

_am i in love with a demon? if i tell you i will ever be allowed back here? do the others even want me? why don't i like it here? why did you make me like this?_

He gave voice to nothing, offered no words in prayer, begged not for forgiveness.

He was afraid. Of what he would be asking for.

He was afraid. To ask questions.

He was afraid.

####  **cracked and leaking, not yet emptied**

It was going to come to this then. A birthday. A party. A dog.

They had worked so hard. They could still succeed. He could still succeed. He could still be enough. He could make it right. _Doomed to failure._ He pushed the thought back.

(damned, too. 

if they knew.

the life he had lived with a demon at his side. trying to salvage the world for the depths of the ineffable. 

living in it. 

together. but not. 

wanting. what he shouldn't want.)

Crowley's voice cut through his thoughts. "I'm saying you could kill him." 

No, that wouldn't be Right. He was the Good one. Wasn't he?

"I've never actually killed anything. I don't think I could."

(he'd been a soldier once.

wielded a sword as She stripped love and grace from those she had made by her own hand.

tore them asunder.

the screaming had been horrific, awful. he had endured.

but. he had ended none of them. 

not their lives.

nor their suffering.

he'd been a soldier.

he'd hated every minute of it.)

Aziraphale had never killed anyone. Never held a life in his hands and turned it to ash. He could feel it - buried in his atoms, in this corporation that had been woven out of firmament and stardust - that he could.

Was this what She had made him for?

The others didn't care enough; about humans, Earth. Lives that blew out like matches.

He'd never killed anyone before.

He was the Good one.

She had made him Good. Hadn't she?

(or. 

maybe. 

he was an angel with a crack through his soul, where empyreal matter leaked. all his broken bones and rule lined skin. all his pierced seams and aching heart.

would he know? 

if he was falling. 

atom by atom.)

####  **lines neither longitude or latitude**

Aziraphale focused on his reflection in the floor length mirror, grease pencil in hand, Crowley's likeness in the corner of his vision. 

(a thousand eyes, stared.)

He felt giddy, and a touch guilty at it. He was going to _perform_. Magic. Human magic. He had practiced and practiced and practiced.

A performance.

An audience.

It should be splintering him apart. The jitters and stage fright. A fear of failing. 

Crowley fussed at his watch, a third, a fifth, an unknowable time. 

(every angelic eye, unblinking. transfixed.)

"You should do real magic, that lot out there won't know the difference."

Aziraphale pouted, frowned. The very idea of it. "I'll know!" 

(he wanted to do this. to put his hands to something, an illusion, one he could control.

a pretense. that was his. that heaven couldn't see.

human magic.

what would they care of it?)

He drew the curling line of the mustache, a curlicue of preciseness to the left of his lip, made to make a match of it on the right.

Crowley moved, a flicker on his periphery before the demon appeared beside the mirror, leaning against it. Watching.

He over-arched the curl. (a thousand eyes, distracted)

"S'uneven, angel."

"Yes, thank you. I can see that."

Crowley stepped towards him, and he didn't back away.

(where would he go?)

"I really don't like your magic act, it's embarrassing." 

All those words, should burn and blister, set his skin to ruin. Burrow deep underneath his ribs and lodge themselves with every other reproach he has ever heard.

He is not liked. What he does is not liked.

He is an embarrassment. Being who he is, is embarrassing. And it should be known. Pointed to.

But.

Crowley's voice was low and warm. And the quirk of his lip belied his words. 

Aziraphale had performed this magic act, these human parlour tricks and misdirections, multiple times. On boardwalks. At parties. In private.

And Crowley.

Had stood at the back.

And watched.

Each time.

Grimacing in embarrassment, he had said. And yet. Always present. Always.

Crowley didn't like his magic act. Crowley liked _him_.

(he had never been an embarrassment.

a demon unashamed of him.

what had She made them for?)

Aziraphale tore his gaze away from Crowley, redirected himself back to the mirror. He traced the misshapen curl, tried to fix it. Crowley huffed at his side.

"You've smudged it now - what are you using a grease pencil for? No one uses these, angel."

" _I_ use them."

"You're ridiculous." 

(no heat, no fire, only honeyed warmth spreading through his belly.)

"If I'm doing such a poor job why don't you do it then?" He spun to face Crowley, was met with a dramatic sigh.

"Need to clean you up first." Crowley's fingers poised to snap, the energy crackling just below the surface of the air. And suddenly a shift, a different energy, a steady build of static that had gathered around them. Drawing them closer. Where had the space between them gone?

He startled - "Don't - don't use a miracle on me directly."

(don't whisper your magic into my borrowed skin. i can't bear it.

what would the others see. what did they know?)

Crowley seemed to understand, shook his head and the energy changed as a cloth appeared in hand. He stepped in again. Toes to toes.

He cleaned the grease paint off, slowly, ran a thumb over where a curl had been, a finger touched the underside of Aziraphale's jaw.

(holding him.

but not.

in place.

aziraphale stayed there.

by choice.)

The air continued to crackle between them, static build up, sparks and flares. The charge built up in his nervous system, an energy, a current flowing. He should feel afraid, this power streaming through his veins.

Crowley's hand slid along his jaw bone, cupping it, with care. It didn't hurt. He didn't know how to live with it. Without it. He didn't know. What he had been denied

What he had been denying.

He had been so afraid.

But.

Crowley's thumbnail tracked the edge of his bottom lip, and he didn't gasp, didn't tear away. His mouth parted.

"We can't." 

"Why not?"

"You and your questions, Crowley." And he should stop it, stop this - this touching, these questions, this flickering moment that seemed to exist just for them.

But. 

Crowley's thumb was at the corner of his mouth.

And his tongue was heavy with everything he couldn't say.

Everything he wasn't allowed.

He opened his mouth. And not in prayer. His tongue laved at the pad of Crowley's thumb. Once. Enough.

More than enough.

Crowley kissed him.

And he didn't back away.

The world was going to end.

They couldn't be together.

This couldn't be.

(it didn't feel like sin.)

He pulled back, his mouth parted - 

And Crowley spilled words into it, drowned his buoying objections before they could escape - "Doesn't have to count, angel. We could just have this. For now. Forget it later. When the job's done." And he knew that neither of them believed it.

But.

He keened forward and pressed his mouth to Crowley's, licked his way in and swallowed the moan that burrowed out of the demon's chest.

This wouldn't count. He could live with it if it didn't count. If it didn't matter.

(the lie of it, the sting and burn and acrid taste of rot of the untruth of it.

of course it mattered.

but.

Crowley would let him pretend.

Crowley would let him.

Crowley would give him what he wanted.)

Crowley broke away from him to press open mouth kisses to his cheek, his jaw, the scant inch of neck above his collar. 

"We can forget it, later." The words against his ear. He turned and captured Crowley's mouth again, he could taste the lies on Crowley's lips.

Forget it, again.

And again and again as they kissed and kissed and kissed.

He felt lit up, glowing. He let it cascade out through every nerve ending, electrons tripping over each other in their urgency. 

(could they others see it from the heavens? 

an angel, glowing.

flushed and luminous with love that was more than just enough.

he had been so afraid.

he still was.

what would they do to them if they knew?)

A demon's love.

Safe.

Magnetic.

The world was ending

But.

He allowed himself the thought - they had it saved. Their plan would work. The power of it surged through him, as Crowley's clever fingers started to undo his coat buttons.

"All we have to do is stop a hellhound. Piece of cake, I'll get you some cake after too, caterer privileges. We can be happy, can't we? Just for a bit."

(he heard every word that has never been spoken.

they have been happy.

they have not been.

together.

but.

for a moment, this moment - to hold Crowley in his hands.

they could forget it after.

but wouldn't.)

Aziraphale's hands found Crowley's waist, slipped beneath the pristine jacket, and gripped his sides. They had now. Now now now. This moment. He could have this. For this moment. He sank his nails into the shirt, fabric pulled tight as he bunched and scraped, as he kissed Crowley again, deepened it and gave himself over to now now now -- 

He licked and nipped and kissed and kissed and kissed and left no room between them words or fear or doubt.

(for now.

he could have this.

for now.

the world wasn't ending.)

He slowed, savoured it, luxuriated in it. 

They had time.

The world wasn't going to end. They had it saved.

"Mr Fell - are you ready - oh excuse me." The party planner schooled her features, suddenly intensely interested in the clipboard in her hands. 

They startled. Aziraphale's face still cradled in Crowley's hands, his own beneath the jacket.

And then.

The flush of adrenaline, of panic, of reality rushing back in. The moment, broken. He reddened. Agitated. Afraid. Someone had seen. He pushed Crowley back a step, took one back of his own. Then a second. A third. 

"We were just - I needed - "

"He'll be out in a minute." A miracle suggested forward and the planner was gone. The door was shut. The power that had been flowing through his body dissipated abruptly. 

He turned back to the mirror. His palms ached with loss.

He couldn't look himself in the eye. (a thousand eyes, averted.) "Oh, I need to - " the space above his lip, still bare. He tried not to focus on the bruised look of his mouth. Tried not to think of what they had just been doing.

He was so tired of trying. He reached for the grease paint with shaking hands, after-tremors of adrenaline, current tremors of worry and fear, rebuilding steadily. 

"Here." A snap, an eyeliner in hand. And Crowley was in his vision, coiling the mustache perfectly into place.

Without touching him. Only the tip of the pencil pressed against him. Crowley. Out of reach.

They could forget it. They could. A moment out of time. 

They had to stop the hellhound. That was it. A last piece of the plan. And then and then and then they would - not be free. They would never be free. 

He still had a performance to complete.

(so many performances.

look heaven in the eye and tell them.

what?

that he was filled with love.

and that it wasn't all for them.)

They would never be free. But they might be safe. It would be enough. To keep Crowley safe.

####  **the crash of breaking waves**

They sat in the car. Gathered themselves.

"No dog."

"No dog."

"Wrong boy."

"Wrong boy."

Crowley shifted in his seat. The jacket moved.

And he could see.

The grease paint fingerprints he had left all over Crowley that the demon had not snapped away.

The world was ending

"I've made a mess." What had he done?

A mess of Crowley, of himself.

He needed to keep them safe and instead he was walking them into ruin.

(what had She made him for?)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh hi! remember when i thought i'd be able to update every two weeks? what a crazy lie i told myself! thanks for sticking with me, and for all your kind words on this story, it means the world. this story is very dear to my heart. 
> 
> i'm continuing my tradition of using end notes to rec other wips cos why the hell not!
> 
> human sunflower [Saretton](https://archiveofourown.org/users/saretton) has this every excellent barber/tailor fic in progress and it is fab: [the fabric of your hair](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28437495/chapters/69685527)
> 
> also the lovely and wonderful [Mintly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mintly) has so very lovely shenanigans happening: [Sentiments of Great and Indefinite Scale](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28390611/chapters/69564888)
> 
> i'm [here](http://caffeinechic.tumblr.com) on tumblr
> 
> comments, questions, dms always welcome!


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His back hit the wall.
> 
> Shoulders pinned.
> 
> The full weight of Crowley's body pushed against his, his jacket pulled tight across his shoulder blades as Crowley pulled the material tighter, harder.
> 
> The demon's face millimetres from his. Their noses brushed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> huge shout out as ever to [Princip1914](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Princip1914) for beta-ing this

####  **No Room to Retreat**

His back hit the wall.

Shoulders pinned.

The full weight of Crowley's body pushed against his, his jacket pulled tight across his shoulder blades as Crowley pulled the material tighter, harder.

The demon's face millimetres from his. Their noses brushed.

**-**

_“Not you, I know what_ you _smell like.”_

And taste like. And feel like. Crowley knew. Crowley had always known. Even before they had kissed and forgotten and kissed again and forgotten again and stared at each other and known. 

Nothing was forgotten. 

Crowley had always known him.

And he didn't know how to bear the truth of it.

Had he given himself away, opened up his aching chest and offered down past the bones and viscera, down to very the knowledge of his true self - or had Crowley reached for him with questing hands and solicitous mouth, trying to find the answer to who he was?

Did it matter?

(it did.

the lie of it.

that he didn't know.

that he had been reaching out.

for something that he still dared not voice. something that was more than _just enough._

and had found it.)

**-**

His back hit the wall.

He let it happen, gave himself over to the movement as he collided with the wall. 

He could have stopped Crowley.

He always could have.

(but.

he had never stopped him,

or, 

himself.)

**-**

_Everyone stretches the truth in memos to head office_

The memos.

That had been his idea. 

Gossamer truths hung over the lies. The lies the lies the lies.

It had been his idea.

Send reports. Write it down. Sign it in permanent ink with names that flared and shone. 

They had lied. They had been lying.

This is who we are, what we have done. This is how we have lived in the world. Wiling. Thwarting. Filled with malevolence. Righteousness. Enemies. Opposites.

Lies.

His palms ached. His leg was sore. He held his glass to keep from banging a fist against his thigh. He had squirmed in his chair as he tried to deflect his role in it. It wasn’t his fault that Crowley had exaggerated so extremely. It wasn’t his fault.

It wasn’t his fault. 

(but.

he was surely to blame. 

they had been lying.

he had been lying.

but.

they could fix it. make it right. he could be enough.

just enough.)

**-**

His back hit the wall.

Their mouths were so close, he could sway forward, brush his top lip against Crowley's, let the skin catch, their breaths mingle.

He could.

He wouldn't.

And Crowley.

Was irate.

For all that Aziraphale wasn't afraid, he knew that he had upset Crowley.

(they had said they would forget it.

they hadn't.

and the ache of it.

should have been unbearable.

but.

his bones were used to stress, to strain, to fracturing and knitting themselves back together a little bit weaker than each time before.

he was weak

for wanting this, for wanting more than he had been given.

the others found him to be wanting.

and his bones were rotting through with their disappointment, the marrow failing. infected with their judgement. 

he was so very tired.

what had She made him for?)

**-**

_You remember Sandalphon?_

Yes. He remembered. 

The confusion of it. The question. The wait for a response.

Sandalphon.

Whom he had met. Repeatedly.

Sandalphon

Whom he had reported to. Who had been present at nearly all of his reports to Heaven.

Who had blinked into and out of his life without notice over thousands of human measured years. 

Yes. He remembered.

Why would they ask?

And he looked.

At Sandalphon's face, the smugness and superiority dripping from his expression, seeping all over the bookshop floor.

Oh.

Of course.

They expected an offering, a tithe, for appearing before him. Uninvited. They would not leave empty handed.

"Sodom and Gomorrah. You were doing a lot of smiting, and turning people into salt. Hard to forget."

(how could he forget.

those human lives, ground down to nothing, swept off on the wind like they had never been.

but.

they had been.

he had seen it, borne witness.

he hadn't helped in their destruction.

he hadn't stopped it, either.

he shouldn't forget. what he had done. what he hadn't.

what had She made him for?)

Sandalphon smiled, all garish gold and bared teeth.

Aziraphale's empty hands ached with want. They offered him nothing in return.

"Something smells…evil"

He bore a heel into the carpet, grounded himself and ground and ground and ground, focused every one of his borrowed cells on not panicking.

(what did they know?

what could they see?)

He inhaled sharply, the scent of nothing unusual in the air.

Because.

Because.

Because.

Crowley had left hours ago. Long before this moment.

It wasn't evil. It was human.

But.

They didn't know the difference. They wouldn't have cared to.

**-**

His back hit the wall

Crowley face haloed by the light through the window.

Crowley snarled and hissed.

Crowley, who did not scare him.

(Crowley.

who knew him.

the truth of him.

not the lies, the pretense.)

His eyes traversed the terrain of Crowley's face, every line, every hair; the shape of his nose, the curve of his mouth.

As Crowley pulled and pushed and bullied him against the wall.

His ribcage ached with everything that was trying to escape, pushing on his fractured bones, his exposed nerves.

(he pressed his hands against the wall

felt the coolness of it against his skin, let it permeate into his cells.

he pressed harder still.

to stop

his aching hands

from reaching out.)

They couldn't.

The world was ending. And even if it wasn't - 

There were rules. Maybe if he’d followed them properly, just done what was asked of him, maybe if he had never known the taste of Crowley’s mouth, the texture of his skin - maybe the world would not be ending now. 

He should have done as he was told. Been as they had wanted him to be.

Maybe.

If he had been good enough. 

He looked at Crowley and felt the weight of sadness, of choice.

(they couldn’t be.

couldn't

wouldn't.

he wouldn't.)

**-**

_All around. Love. Flashes of love._

What if it was him? What if it was him? What if all he was feeling were refractal patterns of himself.

(it felt immense, and overwhelming.

and present.

here.

with Crowley.

what if it was him?

leaking secrets from his broken body, from under scree and desperation, that thing that wanted air and to breath.

trying to escape into the wild.

but Crowley - 

couldn't sense it

maybe

they didn't feel the same

weren't the same

they weren't the same

it didn't matter

did it?)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for sticking with me on this fic! next chapter not too far away as i split it out from this one.
> 
> continuing my recs at the end thing  
> [Curtaincall's](https://archiveofourown.org/users/curtaincall/pseuds/curtaincall) amazing [The Fine Print](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24931381/chapters/73159971) and [TheOldAquarian's](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheOldAquarian/pseuds/TheOldAquarian) superb [Love in Limbo](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23381986/chapters/72987339) are both absolutely fantastic. Do yourself a real solid and put these in your eyeballs. Your day will be so much better for it.
> 
> I'm [here](https://caffeinechic.tumblr.com) on tumblr
> 
> comments, questions, dms always welcome!


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